Church of the Big Sky

Conversations You Can't Believe You're Actually Having: the Staples Edition

2012-01-06T19:22:00.006-05:00

Staples, somewhere along Rockville Pike, 5 p.m.-ish today...

Me to Clerk: Hi, I need to exchange this 12 x 12 x 12 shipping box for this 18 x 12 x 12 one. I miscalculated my shipping needs just slightly.

Clerk to Me: Ma'am, these boxes are the same.

Me: Uh... no, they're not. One is 12 x 12 x 12. The other is 18 x 12 x 12.

Clerk: They're both marked "medium," ma'am. They're the same.

Me: Nooo. They're different sizes. One is bigger than the other.

Clerk: No, ma'am. They are the same. It's just that one is a square and one is a rectangle. They just are shaped differently, so it's an optical illusion. They are both medium boxes.

Me: Umm... that's not an optical illusion. One is bigger. The one with the EIGHTEEN in the dimensions is bigger than the one with all twelves in the dimensions.

Clerk: No. (Points at writing on both boxes.) See? They are both marked MEDIUM so they are the same size. You can just keep your first box, and it will fit the same.

Me: You're kidding, right? Look, I may have flunked out of honors math in high school, but even I know that these boxes have different volume. There are several box sizes and shapes you carry - some are in the small range, some are medium, and some are large.

Clerk: And these are both medium, so they hold the same amount, but can hold different shapes.

(At this point, I start to assemble both boxes. I was the only customer up front. Man, I wish there had been an audience for this.)

Me: See? This box (points to 18-incher) is bigger. It also costs fifty cents more than the other one.

Clerk: Oh, it's more expensive? Then it must be bigger.

Me: (smiles) Yes. It is.

(Not so much.)

Umm... is this thing on?

2011-10-07T22:01:00.003-04:00

To quote old Ben Kenobi, "Not dead. Not yet."

I'm still here, and I think I'll be posting something new tomorrow. It may not be great. I may be rusty. But I'm getting back in the saddle.

Meanwhile, for the three people I know who haven't seen this already, here's how I spent Monday:

Engaging in some cleansing laughter with Thomas Dolby at Sirius XM, 10/3/11.

So, yes. I live. And occasionally, I laugh. I've missed writing, but things have been busy. Projects eating my brain. Too many thoughts jammed in my skull.

I still can't find the end of that damn "closet monster" story, btw. Tiny apartment and no freaking clue where that notebook went. So, I'll move forward with a new story. It concerns a trip to Apple's headquarters several years back, and a story told to me by a veteran Apple engineer. I'm calling it "Steve Jobs and the Fried Chicken Revenge."

More tomorrow, kids!

We were on a break!

2011-05-03T21:35:00.002-04:00

Last night, I spent two hours typing in pages of my chicken scratches to formulate the final piece of the Closet Monster story. It was long enough that I stopped typing last night and saved the entry to finish tonight. My back went out this morning, so finishing it tonight was a no-go, but I wanted to check and see just where I stopped typing yesterday.

And guess what?

The draft entry is gone. Totally gone. Hours of work, eaten by Blogger. I could weep.

Serves me right for not just finishing it last night. Dammit.

Can't sit at the computer for more than a few minutes, so recreation of the wheel will have to wait a while. (For the four people actually reading this.)

Crapsky.

The Closet Monster, Part Three: Suffocation and Staircases

2011-04-28T19:40:00.011-04:00

Our dog found nothing suspicious about my bedroom closet. I couldn’t blame her in truth, in truth. She was not operating on kid logic. She was operating on dog logic. And dog logic is simple: “This is my person, and I love my person, and my person loves me, and I get food and water and walks and lots and lots of attention from my person. And --- oooooh, squirrel!”

I wasn't going to get any sympathy - or alarm - from sweet little Termite.

Now, had human reason or common sense played a role in my thought process, I would have recognized a number of legitimate explanations for the open door:

Our curious cat, the one and only Princess Tuptim of Siam, adept at nosing and pawing her way into just about any space, might have sought a warm pile of linens for a long night's snuggle.

The house, still settling on its foundation, could have nudged the door open on its loose and silent rollers.

Or, God forbid, in an egregious violation of the Monster Rules, I might have left the damn door open myself, inviting in the unseen hell-beast as surely as a vampire might stroll across your threshold at the utterance of a foolish welcome.

But reason was in short supply at times like this, and countermeasures had to be taken!

From that day forward, my nightly ritual was to reach one hand inside the bedroom door from the relative safety of the hallway, flick on the overhead light, and then head across the room to turn on the reading lamp by the bed. With my heart racing, I would I hold my breath - no dead people dust for this girl - and check (and double-check) the closet door. Only then could I turn off the overhead light and race for the bed.

Now, here's where things get a bit too close to "certifiably insane."

All sheets had to be tucked in completely around me - and I'm not talking just on the sides and the foot of the bed. I was convinced that, if I didn't have the sheets covering my head, tucked down behind my shoulders, IT could get me.

I know it's ridiculous. I spent years nearly suffocating myself at night to assure that some vicious creature couldn't attack me. It's amazing I didn't kill myself.

Still, there were many nights when I was absolutely convinced I heard the closet door roll back and heavy, dragging footsteps came to my bedside, stopping just inches from my hidden (and sweaty) face. I could swear I felt hot, moist breath pressing against my cheek and the sound of ragged gasps. What I probably felt and heard was my own hot breath as I hyperventilated in my near oxygen-free 200-thread count prison.

I will not deny that I was not always the brightest bulb on the tree.

But you have to understand that my personal mythos of the Closet Monster was backed up by the existence of a Basement Monster in our house. The Basement Monster snatched at your ankles as you tried to run up the stairs from our damp, spiderwebby cellar. My late brother E. used to live in an awful room down there, cloaked in cigarette smoke and backed up with a soundtrack of Moog-synthesized Bach. His dungeon was stacked high with science fiction paperbacks and decorated with cheesy paintings of dragons and busty redheaded fantasy novel vixens. It was a total pit, but now that he's gone, I miss it a little bit.

E. had a macabre streak that ran straight through the center of his soul. He took pride in scaring the crap out of his sisters, and his attempts to freak the bejeezus out of me were well-honed from years of practice on the other siblings. E. introduced me to Stephen King with a dog-eared copy of Salem's Lot which I read late at night with the light that filtered through my protective bed sheet cocoon. One night - in an epic effort - E. wove together a giant hand from willow branches off the tree in our back yard. As I breathlessly read about vampires in New England (since I could do it no other way, as I cut off my own air supply in a wall of cotton), E. maneuvered the willow hand up to my bedroom window from the patio below . With no warning, he started smacking the hand against my window while bellowing "BWAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!" and (in a classic move) illuminated his face into a demonic red grin with a flashlight tucked under his chin.

Much later, I would have to admit to being impressed by the effort E. put into weaving willow fronds together just to momentarily scare the living shit out of me. However, my parents - veterans of decades of kid pranks - were less impressed and didn't appreciate my screaming from my room, which shared a wall with the master bedroom. Thinking back, though, that was one of the few nights the Closet Monster wasn't foremost in my mind.

The Basement Monster, though? It didn't have to wait for nighttime to come after you...

Yep. To be continued...

The Closet Monster, Part Two: Rules of Engagement

2011-04-27T20:25:00.010-04:00

So, how does a harmless, albeit creepy, pillow open a gateway to some demonic force?

Well, you have to understand kid logic, as opposed to adult reality to truly fathom how these things occur.

That awful pillow rode home in the back of our Plymouth station wagon, stowed directly next to the old metal Coleman ice chest (that I vowed I'd never eat from again, now that it had direct contact with a corpse pillow). Every time I turned around in the car, hour after hour through Minnesota, Iowa, and all the way home to Illinois, that white satin taunted me.

When we got home I picked up the offending object using a car blanket wrapped around my hands so I didn't have to touch it. I raced it into my doll-sized bedroom with the speed usually reserved for hauling coolers for organ transplants. Breathless, I flung open the closet door, and with one hand, I felt around for something to contain the darkness. My fingers met the splintery stays of a cheap green basket left over from Easter a few months before. I pulled it down and stuffed the awful souvenir deep into a bed of pink, plastic grass. With the fervor of an Olympic hammer-thrower, I hauled back and launched the basket back onto the shelf, where it rolled into the pitch black space at the back of the closet. I barricaded it in with a wall of sheets and towels, and slammed the door shut.

And here's where kid logic comes in: whatever's hiding in the dark, if you can't see it, it can't see you. And if you only open the door in the daylight to retrieve clothes or shoes, you're okay. And, of course, you must always hold your breath when you open that door, or you might accidentally suck in some dead people dust and become a zombie or just die yourself.

Funny, huh? Not at the time. This was all deadly serious.

I'm betting most kids have their own set of Monster Rules. Those were mine. Initially, at least. I spent three years sleeping in that tiny bedroom, one eye on the closet door every night, hoping the knob did not turn on its own. In what was surely some low-level case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, I would rattle the knob fairly aggressively, making sure the seal between me and that hideous pillow was firm. Only then could I confidently climb into bed and let my uneasy sleep settle in.

But then, my sister B. moved out of the house, and I inherited the big bedroom next door. The big bedroom was vast for a 12-year-old. Lots of space for bookshelves, a queen-sized bed, room for my drawing table (a table I still have and use today), and an enormous closet. Unlike my smaller quarters, this closet had two doors. On rollers.

This was a complication I had not pondered as I emptied the contents of my old room into the new one. I was so excited about the new digs that, by the time I'd gotten to clearing out the top shelf of the old closet, I'd nearly forgotten that hateful thing tucked away in the darkness. When my fingers brushed a satin edge, and I heard sawdust crunch within that white wrapper, I flinched as if a snake had bitten me.

Now, you might ask, why didn't I just throw the damn thing away? And certainly, that's a very good question. Honestly, I just couldn't do it. At first, I think I was afraid it might get discovered in the trash and get me in trouble with my parents, especially my bellicose father, still grieving. Later, that damn thing had just grown to epic proportions in my mind and developed a sinister life of its own. I figured if I ditched it, I might just find it back at the foot of my bed the next morning, waiting for me. Waiting for the moment to make its move.

Because limbless, mindless pillows make terrible, horrible moves in the world of kid logic.

And so, foolishly, stupidly, I grabbed that damn basket, bolted next door, and tossed that sucker as far back in the new closet as possible. For the second time, I'd buried it, and I hoped whatever powers it possessed would stay cloaked in a wall of flannel sheets. I rolled the door shut, and, and once I calmed my heart to a normal beat, all was good with the world. That first night in my new digs, I slept soundly, our dog Termite planted at my feet.

But in the morning, I saw the terrible evidence of otherworldly activity: the closet door - that door I had so carefully shut the night before - was open. Open. Oh god, oh god, oh merciful god, it was open. Not much, surely. But enough. Enough for me to know that whatever portal swirled at the back of that shelf in a cheap green Easter back was open, and something very, very wrong had slithered out, and likely spent the night hovering over my bed, pondering how to eat me or tear me limb from limb. As I gawped at the space between door and frame, Termite just watched, wagging her stubby tail, and smiling that eager canine smile.

"Great guard dog," I growled at her. "Just great."

To be continued...

The Closet Monster, Part One: Pillow Talk

2011-04-25T20:30:00.012-04:00

I had a monster in my bedroom closet until I was 18 years old.

It's completely true, you know.

I can pinpoint the moment the Closet Monster moved in. It was September 1975, the month my sweet Grandma J. died. J. was my father's mother, a tough, but twinkle-eyed woman who weathered a lifetime of Minnesota seasons, the early death of her first husband - my grandfather - in a harsh Twin Cities winter just a handful of years before the Great Depression pressed hard on the nation, and then decades with her second husband, the Pole. The Pole was a cruel, vile man who terrified me as a young child. He spit tobacco into a rusty coffee can he kept near his chair in their small Minneapolis home and spoke to everyone aggressively in a heavy, abrasive Eastern European accent. My only experience with accents like his were late night creature feature movies.

I thought he was a vampire.

The reality was just this: the Pole was an abusive man who thought Grandma J. had lots of money squirreled away somewhere because she knew a handful of wealthy folks in the area, including members of the Pillsbury family. It wasn't true. The Doughboy hadn't greased Grandma's pockets; she had nothing except her two little boys. After my grandfather died, Grandma J. played piano in a silent movie theater while my father and his little brother, my Uncle J., danced and sang for the audience, who pitched pennies to the fatherless - and nearly destitute - children. My father learned how to rock train cars as they rumbled along the tracks, causing open-topped freight cars to shimmy just enough to spill potatoes or coal to bring home. It was not a glamorous life.

But the dark Pole was certain Grandma was hiding riches somewhere. He married the young widow, and she did give him wealth in the form of a legacy: she bore him two sons, whom the Pole held dear over her first two children. But when he realized there truly was no money in his wife's coffers, flashes of the Pole's rage would appear. Even in their declining years, the light of his miserable soul could be ignited like a match, burning bright for a moment and then vanishing into the impotent weakness of his arthritic bones. While staying with the elderly couple for a few weeks in the last year of Grandma J.'s life, one of my sisters saw the Pole fling a cast iron skillet at the tiny woman's silver-hared head. There'd been many stories of his violence, but this was the first time one of us had witnessed it. As I recall the story, my sister snapped and poured out her venom and anger at him, suggesting that, perhaps, he'd like her to throw a skillet at him. It was an empty threat, but one backed up by the genuine horror of seeing firsthand what all our family - who lived so far away - had feared might be happening.

The Pole was a wretched old bastard.

And, in a cruel twist of fate - and one that defied the usual course of nature - Grandma J. died before he did. I remember my father taking the call that his mother was gone. He had his back to me as he spoke with one of his half-brothers who lived a comfortable life in a comfortable suburb of Minneapolis. I don't think I ever saw my father cry. That was not his way - at least around me. But this time, I recall seeing his shoulders sag and then shake. I'm sure he wept, but he did not invite anyone into his grief.

I was nine years old in 1975, and I'd never been to a funeral before. We drove from Moline to Minneapolis - Mom, Dad, my teenager sisters, and I - and I can only remember bits and pieces of the whole event. I recall the funeral home - it seemed so big to me, like an enormous auditorium - but I know that is just a trick of the child's mind. In college, I rode past the funeral home all the time on the bus to downtown St. Paul - just a modest building in a modest neighborhood. Yet, it will always be overwhelming in my head.

Grandma J. looked serene in her casket, her snow white hair styled and swept away from her pale, paper-thin skin. I think she was dressed in blue, but I can't really be sure anymore. This I do remember: her head rested on a small, white, satin pillow covered in a sash that read "From the Grandchildren" in elaborate script. When my mother took me up to say goodbye, I was trembling. I understood dead. I understood she was gone. And yet, I kept waiting for her to take a breath, for her chest to rise and fall, for her eyes to flutter open, for her to reach out and take my hand.

I was terrified.

"You can touch her hand or kiss her cheek, if you'd like," a voice whispered into my ear. God bless this poor man - the funeral director (who was probably no older than I am now) - trying to comfort a saucer-eyed child paralyzed with fear. I had no intention of touching the body, of course, lest she come back. I had siblings who specialized in scaring the bejeezus out of the younger kids. My late brother Ed was a consummate professional when it came to giving me nightmares. And, already at nine, I had a decent amount of respect for things that go bump in the night.

So, I simply stood stock still, one hand on the cold casket, unwilling to engage any further. I remember one of my sisters leading me off, back to a row of seats in the half-lit room. At the end of the visitation, I saw the funeral director slip something out of the casket before the lid came down on Grandma's peaceful form. As we got up to leave, he came up to me. "I understand you are the youngest grandchild," he said to me quietly, kindly. "I think you should have this to remember her by." And, dear god, he was holding The Pillow. The small, white, satin pillow that had rested under Grandma's J.'s head. The casket pillow. The corpse pillow. The pillow that had cradled a dead head. The deceptively cheap pillow filled with crunchy sawdust, since corpses don't really require comfort. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He was presenting it to me, like a flag at a soldier's burial. I was nine, and everyone was watching. What should I do???

I took it from him.

And with that simple action, I invited the closet monster into my life.

To be continued...

Anyone up for a new story?

2011-04-02T15:05:00.002-04:00

I think I might be ready to put some words to paper. Well, to screen. Ether. Whatever.

Yeah, I think I'm ready.

One of these things is not like the other...

2010-12-18T20:38:00.004-05:00

Holiday quiz time, friends!

Guess which twinkle lights are mine?

As a friend said on Facebook, my neighbor's lights look like an EKG gone horribly wrong. I think alcohol *may* have been a factor. Probably a factor. Well, definitely a factor.

Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum, Xmas mateys!

I swear, world - we are not this stupid

2010-11-29T22:14:00.007-05:00

Just watched a TV commercial so ridiculous, I had to play it back, freeze it, and take a photograph to share.

I know psoriasis is a horrible condition, and it's a painful and awful thing for anyone who suffers from it. Immune system diseases are evil, evil things.

That said, I would like to address the marketing geniuses and overanxious lawyers behind the TV commercial for the InsidePsoriasis.com website (which I see is a property of Amgen and Pfizer from my brief visit to verify that I did not hallucinate this ad.) Please, Madison Avenue whiz kids and big pharma peeps: while we may not be the brightest bulbs on the tree, Americans aren't quite this stupid. I hope. Check it out, fresh from my TV:

Okay...

Apparently, we are supposed to imagine that this is what's going on inside the body of someone suffering from psoriasis, where extra skin cells are being produced due to an immune system malfunction. And holy crap! The extra skin cells are produced by microscopic robots with a conveyor belt. IN. YOUR. BODY!

But wait! What is that mysterious text at the bottom of the screen?!? Aha, kids! You can breathe freely again! There are no robots inside us! This is just a dramatization! Yes, the fine folks behind this miracle of science think we are dumb enough to believe that tiny metal robots are engaging in a small-scale industrial revolution in our flesh, just because they showed it to us - in cartoon form! And to make sure that we are not tripped up by our own remarkable idiocy, they take the time to kindly point out that the wee mechanical men aren't real. "Not an actual representation of the disease process." WOW. THANK YOU!!

My god, what would I have done without that disclaimer?!? I was just about to call my doctor and ask what to do about the small cotton gin in my liver and the army of miniature Chinese sweatshop workers toiling over tiny sewing machines in that sneaker factory in my colon.

Really? Really, people? Is this a disclaimer that needs to be made? At least to people other than those who believe they have "alien implants"???

Congrats, Amgen and Pfizer - y'all are definitely in the running for the Let's Talk Down to the Consumer award. Mazel tov.

Now you'll have to excuse me - I have to go tend to the small dwarf living in my stomach...

We were on a break!

2010-11-27T21:52:00.006-05:00

Okay.

So, I took some time off.

I wrote a maudlin piece of poetry back here in - jeez, was it September? - and took it down almost immediately. Then, I just walked away for a while. Wasn't feeling the love.

Can't believe it's been over two months since I posted anything. I blame Facebook.

And work. And aches and pains. And a little vacation.

Here's the Reader's Digest condensed version of the last two months:

Work, work, sleep, work, torn rotator cuff, pain, sleep, sleep, work, went to the cabin in west virginia for a few days, walked, walked, slept in big chair down by the river, wrote some bad poetry, sleep, work, work, wonderful thanksgiving, aaaaand we're back!

Guess it's time to dip a big toe back into the pool and get going again.

Made my Christmas wreath the evening before Turkey Day while watching awful holiday made-for-TV movies. (Lifetime: Media Hell for Shut-In Women.) For the past few years, I've had two wreaths for the holidays. A friend whose family is in Maine always sends a big, beautiful evergreen wreath that I put out on the balcony at Chez Merde, along with white twinkle lights that I loop across the length of the balcony and through the wreath itself, so it glistens in the nighttime winter sky. Once I put up the wreath and lights, I leave them on until the first week in January. The twinkles use up a minute bit of power, and there's something so lovely about driving up the block and seeing the lights of home in the distance, growing closer, welcoming you to warmth and comfort and peace. (Well, except when the sorority girls or the drunken cougar are home, too.) When the wind whips up, you can smell the evergreen, too, as the scent wafts down to the sidewalk. It's really very nice.

But I have a second wreath, too - one for the door to Chez Merde. This wreath (crafted from finest fake Canadian pine!) I make myself, with colorful bits and bobs from the crafts store. A new one every year, and my policy is to never spend more than $12 to make it. Through the miracle of coupons and other discounts, I've always been able to meet my self-imposed cheapness goal and still make something pretty cool. At the end of each holiday season, I donate that year's wreath to Salvation Army, so another family can put it aside for the next year and enjoy it.

I think this year's wreath is pretty damn good. I even made my own bow, and I'll admit I went a little over the top: it's possible the bow could be seen from space. I think it looks plenty swanky, and I dig seeing it waiting for me when I walk up the stairs. It certainly improves the institutional mud green of the apartment building hallway:

To all my friends here in the United States, I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving, with good food and good friends, firm in the knowledge that you are loved and appreciated and that there is much to be thankful for in your lives.

And to my friends beyond these borders*, I hope you know you are loved and appreciated, too. I know I don't say it enough, but I am blessed and humbled by my friends, who have seen me through some rough times - and some downright weird times, too.

I'll raise a glass to you all tonight. And yeah, it's good to be back.

*These TSA-warped-junk-touching-scary-radiation-levels-in-that-body-scanner borders, that is. I think I may have to ask my friend the Sasquatch to guest blog on that point...

One More Night in a Glamorous Life: the Sleep & Skank Edition

2010-09-18T21:56:00.008-04:00

We have new tenants here at Chez Merde. The departure of the nice half-Brazilian, half-Norwegian (Brawegians? Norzilians?) family upstairs has heralded the arrival of the the Sorority Sisters. A pair of young hotties who are are badass night owls, they arrived with a handful of boxes in the back of their banana yellow Chevy Cobalt, a craptacular car festooned with fake floral leis and beach resort stickers on the bumper. (I wonder if I should tell them that the last resident here with a banana yellow car somehow managed to raise the ire of a mentally unstable neighbor on the block who brandished a pistol and left rambling, multi-page manifestos tacked to our lobby message board - all because she hated yellow cars.) Within a week of the duo's arrival, one thing was clear - they weren't used to living in shared housing with working adults.

I swear to God, even when I was a teen or in my early 20s, I could not go out and party every night of the week without turning into an utter zombie. These guys? They're animals. And honestly, I couldn't give a shit if they were the biggest party critters on the face of the earth, save for two things: 1) they're moronically loud when they come home late at night; and 2) they don't seem able to master the challenges of the laundry/trash room. I say this after following a trail of thong underwear (and food trash) down the stairs to the entryway today. Apparently, they don't have a laundry basket or garbage bags - maybe I should buy them some. Unless that would undermine their secret plan to lure hungry, horny elves, fairies, or trolls up to their second-floor lair. Who knows? (This actually was a point of discussion between me and another neighbor this afternoon - we both refrained from picking up the discarded undies.)

If it wasn't for the sudden bursts of late-night noise, I might find them amusing. One had her 21st birthday shortly after their move-in. There was something deliciously awful about watching their flashy-trashy white stretch Hummer limo attempt a u-turn on our narrow dead-end street. Classic! Except that some of their drunk-ass friends were using my car as a place to rest their drinks as they observed the maneuver. That's the only interaction I've actually had with them - yelling to their friends to move their crap off my car.

But I think some fresh interaction may be coming their way - if their downstairs neighbor (with the cute toddler) doesn't beat me to it. It's the nearly nightly arrival home, accompanied by screaming. Last night, it was 2:45 in the morning when Sister #1 got home and made the drunk walk back to the building, announcing herself to us all: "OMIGOD!!! LET ME IN!! I NEED TO PEE!!! WAAAAAAAAAH!" (Keep in mind, there's no lock or access code for the front door of the building. It's just a matter of getting your own damn apartment door open.) Immediately, you could hear and feel the building coming quickly and unhappily back to life. The silence of sleep was shattered, and floors started to creak as we all padded around, trying to sort out our broken rhythm.

For me, it was useless. The specter of insomnia is always lurking over my shoulder, and it was more than happy to envelope me in its misery. I curled up on the sofa and turned on the TV. A friend had alerted me to a freebie HBO/Skinemax weekend for FiOS users, so I flicked through the late night offerings.

There's a reason Skinemax *is* Skinemax: most channels had one form of soft core porn or another. It's a constant parade of lame scripts, bad new age funk elevator music, and enormous fake boobs. All I could think was "God, her back must hurt all the time" or "Oh, Jesus, what happens if one of them pops? Will it just deflate? Will there be a flesh explosion?"

I'm not kidding. You show me cheap Skinemax porn, and that's what I'm thinking.

Well, actually, it's worse than that. I find it so lame, I'm usually looking into the background of the scenes. This time, in one flick, a couple flopped around on a desk in a classroom somewhere in Asia, where a blackboard featured a set of algebraic equations, sans solutions. I love algebra. Things always come out right if you respect the formula, after all. So, there I was, at 3-something in the miserable a.m., mentally completing equations and multiplying out fractions, while some bored "actors" in a tract house in the San Fernando Valley bumped uglies and pretended to be in Bali. I was psyched to finish all the equations before the couple wrapped things up. I may have flunked out of Calculus in high school, but I've still got the basics down, baby! (Oh, and that chick had a heinous tramp stamp for those keeping score on the actual porn content. Seriously, I've seen better porn between fuzzy lines on channels we didn't pay for back in the days of crappy 90s cable.)

Clearly, I'm not the Skinemax target demographic. I actually yelled back at the screen during an improbable kitchen sex scene. The woman was shown burning her hand on the metal handle of a hot pan on the stove (oven mitts, honey) and then, almost immediately, the dude picked her up and plopped her on the stove for what passes for a good rogering in this level of cinematic non-achievement. Of course, my first reaction was: "Jesus! Hot stove! Hot stove! Her ass must be on fire!"

I was also thinking "Christ, that has to be painful - nothing like having the metal grill of a stove burner plate pressed into your rump, full force, over and over again." (I may be an unadventurous party-pooper, but I'm looking out for your ass, pornstress!)

This reminded me of an event I attended in Baltimore a gazillion years ago (oh, I bet you're wondering where this is going - and no, John Waters was *not* involved.) The cast of the brilliant - and wretchedly underappreciated - TV show "Homicide: Life on the Street" did this series of wonderful live events now and then to support the Fells Point Creative Alliance. "Homicide Live" allowed the cast members to stretch their wings, performing theatrical vignettes, poetry, and music for a very appreciative audience. I went one year, and it was a blast. In one piece (culled from a play I sadly cannot identify tonight) actors Peter Gerety (late of "Rubicon") and Ellen McElduff recounted the misery of a sexual encounter up against a wall, including back pain, balance and height challenges, and some horrific wall-based form of rug burn. It was hilarious and awful and always comes to mind when I flip past bad cable porn (and whenever "The English Patient" is on TV.)

What's the point of all this ramble? (Well, other than the fact that I just outed myself for shamefully watching execrable adult fare on cable in a fit of insomnia last night.) I honestly don't have a point this time. It's just another Saturday night here in suburbia, and I spent it at home alone again, spilling out more words about the inherent weirdness of my life. Trails of thongs, screaming sorority girls... Jesus, maybe I'm actually Stephen Tyler. Jury's out on which one of us breaks a hip first.

G'night, kids.

Oh, I think I should feel a little bit bad about this

2010-09-09T20:02:00.006-04:00

Some poor soul using a public school system computer in Arizona did a web search for "Dian Fossey discoveries and difficulties" and Google directed him/her to my Interview With a Silverback post.* And, while I am very proud of my fake interview with a gorilla (and wish more people read it), I would hope there is not now a child in Tucson writing a report about great apes using a blog post as research. Especially one featuring a fictional talking silverback discussing his virility and gorilla gas with me via satellite phone.

Then again, part of me hopes it happens.

The same part of me that once told a stoned college student who dialed up the American Embassy in Moscow for help with a paper that Karl Marx was the father of the Marx Brothers and John Lennon was the illegitimate child of Vladimir Lenin.

Good times.

*I checked. "Interview With a Silverback" shows up on Page 8 of the Google search. Hilarious. And a little sad. Apologies to the late Dian Fossey. My gorilla is 100% fake.

Archery of My Middle Ages

2010-09-06T17:15:00.008-04:00

So begins a series of occasional posts that I originally wrote as radio commentary for the "Metro Connection" show on WAMU, the public radio station here in the DC area. As that gig has gone belly-up for me, I'll be posting the narratives of my unaired commentary pieces here now and then. This first one is about my pleasant obsession with sharp, pointy things.

Well, here goes. I guess you'll just have to imagine the sweet dulcet tones (snerk, cough, cough) of my voice reading this on air...

Some people hit their forties and have the stereotypical mid-life crisis: buy a fast car, have an affair, bungee jump over a gaping crevasse. My own crisis unfolded over the first half of my forties after a series of car accidents, a pile of broken bones, and partial vision loss. I felt defeated, and I needed some inspiration. But fast cars and affairs aren’t my thing, thanks, and I’m way too chicken to bungee jump. So what did I do?

I took up archery.

Other than paying a few bucks to shoot warped wooden arrows at ye olde Renaissance Faire a few years ago, I hadn’t had a bow in my hands since high school gym class in 1984. Back then, we were handed a few splintery arrows, assigned a beaten-up bow, and pointed in the general direction of some equally beaten-up targets... targets placed directly in front of the faculty parking lot. I always assumed our gym teacher had an axe to grind with her fellow educators as we heard the unmistakable sound of projectiles bouncing off hoods and windshields – and occasionally impaling a tire.

Or maybe she was just a sadist. She usually didn’t hand out protective arm guards until after we’d shot a few arrows and half the girls had walloped their arms with bouncing bow strings. As novice archers shrieked in pain, the teacher would casually point out the bucket of crispy leather straps, stained with years of high schooler sweat. And, faced with the choice of bruises or contact with God-only-knows-what on those diseased pieces of cow skin, most opted for the bruises.

When I recently went with a friend to choose a new recurve bow, I told him about the bruised arm phenomenon back in the day. But I realized I rarely ended up with bruises. (I also never winged a teacher’s car.) Instead, I managed to hit the target with surprising regularity. Turned out, I wasn’t half bad at archery. And when you are a clumsy fat kid in high school, if you find you excel at anything in gym class, you hold on to that. For once, I felt like an equal with the nimble girls who moved in ways I never could. I felt strong. I felt confident and self-assured. And that felt pretty cool.

But like so many things, archery got lost in the haze of college. And then, in work. And work. Aaand work. Over the years, I told incredulous friends how much I’d loved archery. But I never seemed to find the time – or place – for it. Then I hit forty and became a magnet for vehicular disaster. As I thanked my lucky stars to still be alive and mostly in one piece, I started to take stock of what I enjoyed most in this life. And that’s how I ended up happily schlepping a weapon through a Montgomery County park this spring.

There’s a public archery range at Lake Needwood Park up in Rockville. It’s located in a quiet meadow - safely across the street from the nearest picnic area – and has a handful of hay bales and stone markers noting distance. You have to bring your own targets to hitch onto the hay, but the ones I’d ordered hadn’t arrived yet for that first day. All I had in hand was a six-inch by six-inch piece of sticky paper from. The small square was marked with a single red triangle encompassed by a single black circle. It was ludicrously small for a beginner (especially one with crappy eyesight), but I figured, what the hell - I was here, and this was, after all, just a first attempt.

I picked a target and slapped the sticky paper on the hay. When I’d limped the forty feet back to my bow, that little red triangle looked ridiculously tiny, and I wondered just what the heck I was doing. But as soon as I had that bow in my hand, it felt right. I nocked my first arrow, took a deep breath, and drew back the bow string. And when I heard that arrow zing straight into that little scrap of paper? Man, it was good. It was kinda Zen, even.

The score at the end of my first day? Well, I managed to step on my arrows once. Somewhere along the way I lost a fletching off one of them. (I have no idea where it ended up.) And on one shot, I actually snapped the bow string behind my protective arm guard. (That shot briefly voided my Zen.) But it didn’t matter. I shot sixty arrows and had to retrieve only two that I managed to embed in the hillside. The rest? They all landed true on that tiny target. Not bad for a chick with 1.5 eyes and a numb leg, eh?

Another archer arrived while I was shooting. Older than me, with a fancy compound bow, he shot at another target and occasionally stopped to watch me. We wrapped up at about the same time, and he came over to me. “Don’t know how long you’ve been shooting,” he said. “But you’ve got talent. I hope I see you out here again.” How ‘bout that? I’ve got talent! And a big bruise.

Now, I know I’m never going to be called up for the Olympics - or defeat the French at Agincourt - but I’m hooked. Best. Mid-life crisis. Ever. I found out there are at least two other archery ranges in Montgomery County waiting for me. So, consider this fair warning, hale bales of Maryland! Beware!! I’m armed, I’m ready, and I’m coming to show you who’s boss!

No More Radio Days

2010-09-05T20:08:00.005-04:00

With the departure of my friend/host/producer @ WAMU, it appears that my time as a public radio commentator is apparently over. I am very grateful for the handful of times that I was able to tell stories on-air. It was fun while it lasted, but like all good things, I suppose it had to come to an end.

I guess now I'll just have to come up with my own podcast, eh?

Several weeks ago, I forwarded a few pieces for broadcast consideration, but never heard back on coming in to record them. So, rather than let them languish and grow stale tucked away in a file, I've decided to share the pieces here. Keep in mind, these were written for radio performance - and a 3 minute, 30 second-ish performance at that. The words are sparse and the rhythm specific. These are words edited down to the bare bones of stories to meet a stopwatch countdown. I just figured you might find it interesting to see what the radio script looks like out here.

I'll reformat the first one tomorrow and post it. It's not snarky, for the most part. It's all about how I'm handling what passes for a midlife crisis in a household that operates paycheck-to-paycheck. No electronic toys. No fast car. No international travel. (Hell, not jack shit, really! Not even a savings account these days.) Just something simple and very much to the point.

More tomorrow...

I defy you to not enjoy this

2010-08-31T23:33:00.004-04:00

I swear, I've watched the opening musical number from the Emmy Awards like, fifteen times, and it makes me smile like a moron each time. You'd have to be: 1)a heartless puppy snuffer; 2)a hater of pop culture; 3)utterly un-American; and 4)not own a TV to not enjoy the stuffing out of this.

Seriously, what's not to love? My favorite Springsteen song, the Glee kids, John Hamm, Jorge Garcia, Joel McHale, Tina Fey, Jane Lynch, Tim Gunn, Betty White...

What a kick!

Can I Get a Witness?

2010-08-26T19:29:00.006-04:00

Leaving work today, I witnessed a nasty car accident from about five feet away. A woman in a Camry swerved across two lanes of traffic directly into the path of a Tahoe which was motoring along in the far left lane of M Street. There was no way the Tahoe driver could possibly have missed the blue bullet in his path.

The impact was intense and in just a split second, the sidewalk in front of me was showered in glass fragments.

I felt my whole body go cold, my stomach started to flip-flop, and, dammit, I immediately had a flashback to last June's collision. And then - what the hell? - to a collision from many, many years ago, when I was hit in my mom's station wagon by a speeding red light runner back in my home town (directly in front of our insurance agent's office.)

When I regained my composure enough to speak (with that shaky shock voice you have when you've just seen something that could have ended a life or two or three) I approached the driver of the Tahoe and offered to be a witness to the accident. Very few people have stopped to be witnesses for me, so I know how important it is to have an independent voice to describe the situation.

I must have been speaking much louder than I thought. The driver of the Camry - amazingly uninjured but trapped by the crushed door of her car - kept yelling over to me, "Oh no, no - I'll take responsibility for this. You don't have to be a witness. You don't have to wait for the police. Really, you don't have to be a witness!"

Hello, lady - I call bullshit on that one.

I found one of my non-day job business cards (the ones that say "freelance writer & blogger") and handed it to the stunned Tahoe driver.

"Look, I've been in several accidents in recent years. If your insurance company or the police need to talk to me, you give them my information, okay?"

Again, the Camry driver yelled her mantra. "You don't need to be a witness! It's okay!"

As I pressed my card into Tahoe guy's hands I said, "As the Russians say, 'Доверяй, но проверяй' - trust, but verify. She may say this now, but stories tend to change overnight. Have them call me."

I've just gotten over that shaky wave of nausea. Took a couple of hours. But I think I'm going to bed early tonight. And I hope this guy's insurance company calls me.

I'm a very good witness.

Folks, if you ever have the misfortune of witnessing an accident, please don't walk away or drive away or just ignore what you saw. You may be the difference between a speedy resolution and months or years of anguish and frustration for some poor sod.

And you'll have some damn good karma on your side.

Yeah, I Live in "Classy Town USA"

2010-08-25T23:20:00.008-04:00

I posted this suburban nightmare to my Facebook account a couple of weeks ago, and I realized I never told the tale here. Forgive the presentation of this story - I'm pulling this from my original Facebook post and then my follow-up comments in response to appalled friends.

To be muttered a la Jack Bauer:
the following took place at a strip mall right outside Montgomery Mall in Bethesda, more or less between 6 and 7 p.m., August 9th...

Original Facebook post:
"Gentlemen: no matter how sweaty you get, no matter how pretty you and your clown car of peeps want to make yourselves before going into a local bar & grill... please do not all strip to your skivvies outside your minivan and, uh, cleanse your nether regions with baby wipes in front of all the alfresco diners at Ledo Pizza and the Corner Bakery. I may never shake hands with a 20-something male ever again."

In response to comments of amazed horror:
"It was disgusting. A whole minivan of young dudes - clearly they had been running/biking/working out in some way, but to shuck your clothes in a really full parking lot in front of tons of cafe patrons? Just tacky. And - god help me for writing this - one of them dug into his undies twice with the baby wipes to clean his junk and then - oh god, oh god - he lifted the soiled baby wipe to his face and sniffed it. I sat in my car and dry heaved.

When these guys had all changed clothes, they were in dark jeans or Dockers, with button-down shirts, and all had gov't agency IDs clipped to their belts. These weren't exactly homeless guys. Just... disgusting. People were walking past just staring in shock and amazement. And a little horror.

Gaaaah, now I need more Purell just for writing this!"

And later...
I actually called one of my sisters because I couldn't believe it, and - poor thing - she got an earful when I yelled, "OMIGOD, STOP WIPING YOUR JUNK!" That's the point when my sister said, "Oh Jesus, I'm hanging up now." Stay classy, suburban DC!"

Yes, Bethesda. Stay super classy!

And to all, a good night.

Forty-Five

2010-08-24T22:38:00.007-04:00

So, in a couple of months I turn 45. Halfway to 90. Halfway to dead, I sometimes joke. Truth is, no one knows how long we get on this planet. Gotta make every moment count as much as you can. Maybe I'll wax on about that later, but not now.

Usually, when folks turn 40, it's a big deal. (At least for those of us who dig birthdays.) My 40th was not exactly a big deal. But some things have happened in the intervening years between 40 and now that make me want to celebrate this number.

I lost a brother.

I lost a sister.

I lost part of my vision, and my parts of my spine were crushed. (Along with a bit of my spirit.)

I found out that I was a little more fragile that I ever figured I would have to admit. And I have a greater respect for the impermanence of life - and the need to squeeze every drop of joy you can from it, circumstances be damned.

And so, I want to mark this date somehow. In the end, it may just be me and a big bottle of cheap Aussie wine (seriously, the Australian wine industry owes me some royalties at this point), but I feel like I should make it count.

If I had any cash like a real adult, I'd invite some folks to be my guests and join me for dinner or BBQ in a park (it'll be a wee bit cold for that, likely, come November) or sit around a fire, telling stories and drinking cider. (Man, I miss the embassy's dachas outside of Moscow sometimes!!)

But, as always, the cupboard is pretty damn bare. Being the hostess with the mostest isn't a possibility, much to my shame.

So, creative thinkers, how would you celebrate a milestone birthday on a shoestring budget? I'm aiming to not just have a tuna sandwich in front of the TV watching the previous night's episode of "Mad Men." (Although, I'll take a hearty slice of John Hamm any old day, thank you very much, even if he's playing an ass like Don Draper.)

Should I rent myself a pile of movies and just hunker down for a day of slugliness? Should I squirrel away enough $$ for a tank of gas to go sit out on the beach for a cold autumn day at the shore?

What would you do? Creative - and reaaaaally inexpensive - ideas welcome.

Hint to DC City Workers

2010-08-20T08:55:00.000-04:00

If you're driving a city-owned car (or, as was the case this morning, city-owned tractor!) and you have a sticker on the back window that reads "How's my driving? Call 311 to report problems" DON'T DRIVE THROUGH EVERY RED LIGHT ON CONNECTICUT BETWEEN THE HILTON AND DUPONT CIRCLE.

Amazed people like me will actually call 311 and complain. (And, for the record, I spoke to a lovely, uber professional person at DC's 311 line who took my complaint, confirmed that this was a city worker, and gave me a complaint confirmation number.)

The same goes for federal workers driving cars with USG plates. You're driving on our dime. And you have federal license plates. You're easy to report when you're swerving between lanes in morning rush hour like a Friday night drunk.

Grrr.

Coffee Crank

2010-08-16T22:56:00.007-04:00

Snagged a parking space this evening directly in front of the Caribou Coffee @ 17th & Penn NW - kitty corner from the White House. Tourist/Washington Helmet-Headed Bird Woman*/Wonk Central. Got the cheapest iced coffee the 'Bou offers while I waited briefly for the Sasquatch to wrap up his workday down the street. WTOP had just announced the wretched temperature before I exited the Crapmobile - still 90F at 6 p.m. with a heat index of 100 hellish degrees.

I was nursing a bad headache and wasn't up to hipster muzak and blasting A/C inside, so I snagged a shaded table right on the street. A few other customers dotted the remaining outdoor tables in the muggy air. I saw a family studying a fold-up tourist map of the city just past the tables. Usually, I offer to help folks, but my brain was getting close to shutting down for the day. Not American, I thought. European?

Then I heard their voices as they spoke loudly over rush hour traffic: Londoners. East End. (I have - or at least had - a good ear for UK accents. Some of my friends at the LSE used to make a game out of testing my ability to place people in cities and regions by voice.) Mum and Dad, teenage son, married daughter and son-in-law. Daughter was oddly dressed in two heavy layers of autumn knitwear; I could only imagine she was slow-cooking in her clothes like a human stew. She was clearly irritated as her husband tried to map their way to Georgetown.

As she waited, arms crossed, she turned toward the Caribou and frowned at the alfresco drinkers. "FUCKIN' 'ELL!" That got everyone's attention. "What kind of crazy bastards drink coffee in this heat?!? Fuckin' 'ell!" Even as the whole family squished into a taxi, she continued to rant in disproportionate response to our summer beverage choices. "My god, that would make me sick! Crazy bastards!"

As they drove away, I exchanged raised eyebrows with the woman at the next table. "Jeez! She needs to relax," the other woman laughed.

I looked at my sweaty cup of lovely iced coffee and just smiled.

Hello, I'm a crazy bastard. And this iced coffee? Very refreshing.

*You know the "Washington Helmet Headed Bird Woman," right? So thin as to have sold her soul to Satan (or Benson & Hedges), courting osteoporosis, clad in an old school Chanel-ish suit, sensible heels, with AquaNetted hair in a helmet halo that a 1960s Betty Crocker would have been proud to sport. Likely has an upper management role at a federal agency or some nonprofit. Mostly humorless. C'mon, DC - we *all* know these women.

The cicadas know...

2010-08-08T19:53:00.004-04:00

...that the temperature is going to start to skyrocket again tomorrow. They're like a living, chattering weather station, whirring with increasing intensity as the mercury climbs. Right now, they're engaged in a sunset call and response battle with the field crickets, who rise to supremacy when the moonlight glows and the cicadas diminish.

Sometimes, it's hard to believe how close I live to a major commuter road when all I can hear is this symphony of clicks, the levels rising and falling like a wave off the beach. When the cicadas settle in silence for the night, the crickets will be quiet enough that I"ll be able to hear the freight trains clacking down the road and the strange, rounded sound of brakes being applied on the Metro trains as they pull into Grosvenor Station.

And in the quiet, I'll hear the last planes of the night, on approach to National and Dulles. Bringing loved ones home to waiting family and freshly made beds. Bringing businessmen in to airport hotels to prepare for Monday meetings and far too many paper cups of bad, strong coffee. And soon, bringing my friend back.

So many words, so many ideas, unspoken, unheard, for so long.

Just the crickets and cicadas to hear me. And they rarely find my thoughts enlightening or entertaining.

After all, it's all just chirps and whirs and chattering of another organic sort. Understandable, translatable by only that few we choose ourselves.

Why, sure you can pay me to buy that swanky printer paper

2010-08-07T19:19:00.003-04:00

I love stuff like this.

I ran out of my crappy cheap printer paper for home use. Went to Staples today - they had a deal where you could buy *any* ream of paper -max of two reams for this deal, any brand/type - and you get the cost back 100% in Staples Rewards. Nice. Really nice. I don't mind waiting a month to get paid back.

But then I noticed that the swanky Hammermill Ultra Premium inkjet paper also had an online rebate of $3 a ream. So, I bought two reams, and in the end, Staples will be paying me $6 for having bought the nice paper.

It pays to be a savvy customer. Also pays to just walk into a deal like that by accident. Which is pretty much what happened here...

Tell me all the things you would change

2010-08-05T23:15:00.005-04:00

Lots on my mind right now. Lots and lots.

The moment I woke up today, I had Crowded House music in my head. The words, the melodies - all comforting to me. And the songs kept me focused today, despite feeling unsettled, unsure. A line from "Distant Sun" - the song in the video below - has been my mantra all day: I am not afraid of the dark.

I am not afraid of the dark.

Don't ever be afraid of the dark, friends. Never, ever.

Well, this doesn't look good

2010-08-04T19:04:00.003-04:00

Just heard a weatherdude say this storm looks pretty much like the one that kicked our collective butt two weekends back. Heads up, PEPCO: thanks to my growing lack of trust in you, I still haven't bought new groceries - I don't have jack squat in my kitchen for you to ruin, bwah hah hah hah!

Frak - I need more batteries...

I Suck at Poetry: the Lydia Deetz Edition

2010-08-03T22:13:00.006-04:00

(Ten points to Gryffindor if you got the Beetlejuice reference.) And yeah, I still suck at poetry.

Hold

The bookmark girl in isolation
Awaits his hand upon the shelf
The fleeting seconds when his fingers
Brush her worn out leather soul

A faithful dog who stays at doors
And windows, like a matchgirl watches
Banquets of his life, so glad
For scraps that slip from plates

She swallows her own phosphorus
But no one sees the glow inside
Like fireflies she feels when
He passes her in flight

Breathless for the moments granted
In his presence and his eyes
Before the bookmark is replaced
And she is shelved again

To hope

Facebook recommends...

2010-08-03T19:45:00.004-04:00

From my Facebook page just now:

I'll give a nickel to the person who comes up with the best fake status update for either one of these guys. Go!

Radio Hack

2010-08-01T13:19:00.004-04:00

Know what Radio Shack wanted for two replacement batteries for my two cordless phones at home? $42. Yeah! For real! Forty-two dollars. I can pretty much buy a whole new set of cordless phones for that at Sam's Club.

Advice: if you live on the 355 corridor in MoCo, go to Batteries Plus, just south of Rockville Town Center (and the grave of F. Scott Fitzgerald.) The really nice guys there identified the battery I needed, and, when they discovered they only had one in stock, they upgraded me to the more expensive long-life version, but at the cheaper battery's price. I was in and out for $20 and felt like they went out of their way to keep me a happy customer. Neat!

I know, it's pretty mundane, but some days are like that. I'm grateful for the occasional boring day. Puts the rest of My Weird Life in perspective. I went to the post office, bought batteries, and now it's time to suit up to haul away the beef and pork bodies in my kitchen morgue. Pray for me.

BTW, less mundane: my encounter the other day with the insane young Middle Eastern dude driving a Caddy like he was high and then engaging in some of the most racist behavior I've ever seen. More on this later. Now, the scouring of the kitchen...

There's nothing quite like...

2010-07-31T23:28:00.005-04:00

...cleansing laughter, entertaining TV, some nice wine, and a nearly orgasmic piece of fine Omaha steak to swing a positive end to a fairly awful week. My mood is tremendously improved, and I fully intend to sleep like a baby tonight.

Tomorrow, I exorcise the demons of the Power Outage Fridge. God help me. But the condemned woman did have a fine last meal before opening Pandora's box of stink meat.

(Some may ask, Merujo, why wait until now to clean out the diseased refrigerator and freezer? Well, here's the deal: 1) I was just too damn tired from sleeping a couple of hours each night and then going into work at 4:30 or 5 in the morning to escape the heat; 2) I wanted to wait until my apartment cooled down again before beginning the kitchen purge; and 3) I *really* wanted to wait until whatever bacteria got stirred up in the unintentional hotbox had been reduced to slow and sluggish bugs by the cooling process before starting the crime scene clean up. Also, I didn't want to open the freezer and have everything run like a river of blood at an abattoir.)

I still haven't bought new groceries. After hearing we might get more thunderstorms this weekend, I didn't want to invest in new food only to have it go bad. Again. For the fourth time this year.

Time to brush teeth and hit the hay. Sweet dreams, friends!

Just sayin'...

2010-07-28T08:28:00.005-04:00

If the power isn't back on in my 'hood by, oh, midnight tonight, I think dumping the rotten contents of my fridge and freezer in front of PEPCO's corporate office sounds like a good idea. Old school protest style - my Macalester grass roots are showing.

Another note for PEPCO: don't tout a phone number where folks can call and talk to an actual human to get restoration times if people are going to call in and be told, "Oh, we have no restoration time for your area. CLICK."

Jerkweasels.

Screw you, PEPCO

2010-07-27T11:45:00.001-04:00

To the Management of the glorious Potomac Electric Power Company:

A few requests...

I'd like you to cover the cost of my fridge & freezer full of spoiled food (third time this year.)

I'd like you to spend the next few nights, tossing and turning on my sofa as the temperatures soar again.

I'd also like your reps to not make ridiculous comments on the radio, suggesting that people WITHOUT ANY POWER go check your website for updates and to see the outage map (oh, the bitter laughter in my car over that one!)

Most of all, I'd like you to turn the frigging power back on.

Don't feel like being nice at this point. This crap happens far too often. Friday is when you expect the power to come back on for everyone? I wonder how many elderly or ill people will suffer health crises in the next few days after being stuck in stifling conditions. And how many folks, including me, will be struggling to figure out where to get the money to replace the ruined food.

Screw you, PEPCO. You need to have a "come to Jesus" moment about your infrastructure and your ability to respond to emergencies.

For the record, I appreciate everything the guys in the trucks and on the ground are doing; my big middle finger is for the management of PEPCO.

You're doing this wrong.

This post inaugurates a new label for blog entries: "PEPCO." Why? Because I see a theme developing.

GRRRRRR.

I would have sucked at living in the 1800s

2010-07-26T08:15:00.006-04:00

Nothing like a ice-cold shower to wake you up at 5:45 in the morning. And a short shower at that, since we're under mandatory water restrictions.

Power's been out at home since a killer storm turned the sky pitch black yesterday afternoon and wiped out electricity to about 300,000 PEPCO customers in my county alone. Of course, I'd just gone grocery shopping for the week the day before.

And all my summer work clothes were in the washers in the basement.

Aaand I had a crock pot bubbling away.

Embarrassingly, I also had a Twilight movie from Redbox in my DVD player. You know, I don't mind spending an extra buck or two on a Redbox movie when it's a good movie, but Twilight: New Moon? Yeesh. It's still stuck in my DVD player.

Got up to about 85F in the apartment overnight. I listened to old time radio on NPR until I finally fell asleep in a sweaty heap on the sofa (so I could be near the open balcony door.) I did love the sound of silence, save for the birds, crickets, and cicadas.

Well, I loved it until one of my neighbors got the brilliant idea to sleep in his car overnight, running the engine so he could use the A/C all night. Nothing like having some dumbass idling his car directly outside your window to make a challenging - and sweaty - situation more challenging. My upstairs neighbor had started pacing around when this guy decided to add to the problem by cranking up his radio high enough that his car was vibrating. I felt like a cop when I finally wandered outside around 1 in the morning, and tapped on his window with my Maglite. "Uhhh, dude, you know you're keeping this whole building awake?" He drove off to go sleep somewhere else. Go with god, car dude. Just go with God on another street.

Food in my fridge is ruined. My laundry is soaking wet. Power likely won't be restored until sometime Tuesday, at the earliest. I'll have to see if I can find some fresh ice somewhere tonight to save the stuff I was able to fit into my cooler. (Giant had a back-up generator running and was selling half-thawed bags of ice yesterday. Took over an hour to get a mile up the road, buy ice, and get back home.)

I know, whine, whine, whine. Things could be MUCH worse. This is true. Try imagine no electricity 24/7, all while wearing wool and/or layers of petticoats. I'm barely cut out for the 21st century. I wouldn't have lasted a week here on the swamp back in the day.

Now, you'll have to excuse me. I need to go swoon.

Eh, screw it!

2010-07-25T01:43:00.005-04:00

I was going to hit the AMC Theatres @ White Flint for a 9:10 a.m. showing of "Inception" tomorrow (well, hell - it's 1:44 in the morning, so make that today) but I think the phrase that pays right now is fuhgettaboutit! I got four movies from Redbox and I'll have a leisurely day of doing laundry, dishes, and making a crock pot of sirloin tips in fresh mushroom sauce (to be served over zucchini - guest starring in the role of pasta.) I can see "Inception" later. I just realized that, even at the ungodly flick-viewing hour of 9 ayem, there will likely be a ton of peeps looking for a place with blasting A/C to shelter from Mutha Nature's major thermostatic malfunction.

Okay. Alarm turned off. It's sack time! Tomorrow, a little Scandahooligan subtitle magic and "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo."

Is Giles available in sugar-free?

2010-07-24T00:00:00.008-04:00

Jones Soda, the people who brought us the disgusting Turkey & Gravy soda (and, as of last year, dear god, Tofurky & Gravy soda) now have flavors - in limited edition bottles - celebrating the comic book series Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season Eight.

I haven't had sugared soda in a looong, looong time, and I won't be consuming these, thanks. But I do like the thought of a tall glass of Giles. Or Xander.

A tall glass, indeed.

You know, something cool to slowly, seductively sip out on the veranda when it's ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN degrees outside tomorrow. Then again, screw the slow seductive sip - might as well just shotgun that drink in the hopes of keeping your innards from igniting.

Guess I'll just have to settle for ice water with lime slices (and cowering in the cool, cool dark) all weekend. But if they do ever make Sugar-Free Giles (or Diet Xander), sign me up, babe! Englishmen and cute dudes with eyepatches? You just can't go wrong!

A Swift Kick to the Ego

2010-07-23T20:01:00.003-04:00

One should never look at the London School of Economics alumni magazine, unless one is prepared to see that folks with whom one studied are now "Minister of This" or "Minister of That" in their home countries.

(And then have to look in the fridge to see if there's enough Miracle Whip Light to make a tuna salad sandwich.)

I think dinner may simply be a large glass of cheap Australian red.

Consumed while wearing my tin crown labeled "Queen of the Universe."

Are we hurtling rapidly toward the sun?

2010-07-22T19:36:00.003-04:00

I think, on a whole, I'd prefer to be in San Diego at Comic Con this weekend. Big time.

Welcome to the Hellmouth, kids:

Level 42

2010-07-22T07:13:00.002-04:00

Friends, after years of saying "One day, I have to see Mark King play the bass live," I finally got that chance last night at Rams Head in Annapolis. Level 42 was fantastic, and the room was a very happy one. Funky, fabulous, and I wish I could afford to go see them again tonight at the Birchmere.

Drove home from the bay with the windows open, singing the whole way. Ahhh! What a fine night. And much gratitude to the band for really giving us one hell of a good show. For me, it always makes a gig even better when the band seems to really be having a good time and is projecting that wonderful truth that *everyone* in the room is having a damn good time. That's what we got at Rams Head.

And, adorably, keyboardist Mike Lindup did the "been trying to reach your shores" and "waves of doubt" moves last night, just like in the video below. What a blast!

If you read my Air & Space article...

2010-07-18T20:25:00.003-04:00

...please be sure to leave a comment on the A&S website, so the editors know if you enjoyed it. I've put permalinks over at the top right of the blog to both the main article and the slide show with additional vignettes from my mother's life and the story of the WASP. You can leave comments on either - or both - pieces on the A&S site.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for leaving feedback!!

From the Church of the Big Sky Way-Back Machine: On Love of Music

2010-07-18T14:50:00.009-04:00

I was going to go see "Inception" early this morning - do a "Crepes and Apes" thing.* But around midnight last night, I got socked with a migraine the likes of which I haven't encountered in a long, long time. Tsumani-esque waves of nausea, stabbing pain, the whole nine yards. So, I turned off the alarm and curled up in a fetal ball last night for a little miserable shut-eye.

And while I woke up late this morning feeling marginally less queasy, I could feel the heat seeping through the balcony door. Without even opening a window, I knew the air outside was heavy and tangible. The morning was sultry, to borrow a little from "Throw Mama From the Train." It's not fit for man or beast or bug this afternoon, with the heat index close to 100F, so archery and a brisk walk are off my agenda. My cranium is still throbbing, so I'm going to retreat back into my dimly lit living room with a big bottle of water and a fistful of ibuprofen.

However, in my grand plan to continue my campaign to write regularly and keep flogging the blogging horse, I'll share with you a post I wrote just about three years ago about my love of music - and my sadness at missing a rare Crowded House concert in the area because of empty pockets and a car that needed to be shot like Ol' Yeller. This came to mind because I'll be going to hear Crowded House out at Wolf Trap in a few days - and, Dear God and Mutha Nature, hear my plea: let this oppressive heat and humidity let up before I have to sit in the sun on the Wolf Trap lawn, okay?

So, while my aching brain and I wuss out on writing something new, enjoy this: An Act of Simple Devotion.

* "Crepes and Apes" refers to the practice of going to see movies early on Sunday mornings (as to avoid much annoying yammering and cell phone activity) in tandem with a stop at the local IHOP. This originated when friends and I went to see the Tim Burton remake of "Planet of the Apes" after an IHOP breakfast during a crepe promotion. And - voila - "Crepes and Apes" was born!

Did the earth move for you, too, baby?

2010-07-16T05:41:00.003-04:00

We just had an earthquake! A small one, for sure - 3.6 magnitude, epicenter just a few miles up the road from me in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Everything in my building shook, and one of my framed posters took a swan dive to the floor. Glass didn't break, though, and I attribute the fall more to my lame efforts at picture hanging than the mild "shake and wake" of the quake.

Ironic that Ms. Insomnia was actually sleeping for once when this happened at 5:04 a.m. And now, I'm fully awake. On my day off.

Earthquakes: Mother Nature's alarm clock. Hopefully, she didn't hit the snooze. No need for aftershocks, please - really, I'm up.

Props from the Alma Mater

2010-07-14T22:14:00.009-04:00

Sweet! My alma mater, Macalester College, tweeted about my Air & Space article and posted it to their Facebook page. Too cool. :)

My fabulous college advisor Gitta Hammarberg was behind that. Thanks, Gitta! And thanks for initiating me into the cult of Lipson and his "udarniki" and "bezdel'niki."

My Air & Space article is out!!

2010-07-13T19:43:00.006-04:00

Hello, folks!

At long last, the article I wrote about my mother & the WASP has been published. It will be in the August 2010 issue of Smithsonian's Air & Space magazine (and I hope it sells out on the news stand!! Buy a hard copy, please!!)

Today, the article went up on the Air & Space website. And what's wonderful is that the fine folks of Air & Space went far above and beyond in including great extras to supplement the story. Along with the feature, there is a gallery of all the photos included in the physical magazine, as well as an MP3 of Mom talking about Charles Lindbergh inspiring her back when she was only five years old.

And - making it all even more cool - they included a "web extra" slide show of additional photos coupled with the stories that had to be cut from the magazine for space considerations. How awesome is that?!?

I would like to say thank you to great people at Air & Space - especially Rebecca Maksel, the amazing editor who worked with me on this piece. She has had infinite patience with me.

If you enjoy it, please leave a comment on the Air & Space website. The feedback would be great and much appreciated.

I hope you enjoy it. It's probably the most important story I'll ever tell in this lifetime.

I'll never forget, Mom.

UGH

2010-07-06T12:05:00.002-04:00

Welcome to Washington, DC!

Blogger comments are screwed today

2010-07-06T09:02:00.002-04:00

Hi folks,

Just FYI - Blogger is having problems and many people, including me, currently cannot moderate/publish comments from readers. So, please know you are not being ignored. Just can't get the system to cooperate. And trying to get answers from the Blogger folks is very challenging. (The support group is full of frustrated peeps.)

Roku, how I love thee!

2010-07-05T14:06:00.010-04:00

Have I mentioned how much I love my little Roku machine? Yes, the initial investment set me back a little under $100, but if you're on a short financial chain, but love movies and music, it's a godsend and worth turning a trick or two to buy. I have my $10 (well, $9.53) one-DVD-a-month Netflix account, which comes with all-you-can-eat viewing from their instant play menu. And there are so many other free channels I get (my Pandora stations, Radio Paradise, etc.) - man I love it!

Today, I added the freebie mp3tunes.com to my Roku line up. Right now, I get 2GB of free "locker" space for music and videos from my iTunes account that I can now listen to/watch through the TV. When you sync your Roku to mp3tunes.com, you get an invite for an upgrade to 10GB of freebie iTunes locker space. That's a nice pile of your hand-picked songs for a party or a day of lounging with a book. Sweeeeeet!

I got one of my sisters hooked on Roku, and she's got her own little black box now. It's addictive pleasure for shallow-pocketed pop culture freaks. Really, it's heaven. I have so many foreign films lined up to watch, I could run my own art house cinema.

And right now, I'm listening to brand spankin' new Thomas Dolby music through my TV. Ah, technology! Sometimes you really are grand!

And hey, kids - if you haven't heard Mr. Dolby's first new studio music in 20 years, it's time to hie yourself over to his website, join his forum, and then, for $2.99, you can revel in some gorgeous and fun new tunes. Seriously - go get his new "Amerikana" EP. It's an exclusive download (with swanky digital booklet!) for registered members of his official forum, the Flat Earth Society. Three killer tracks for less than a Starbucks coffee, folks! Once you hear "17 Hills," I guarantee you will be hooked on Dolby music all over again.

Go! Now! Get new music! Fall in love!

And if you don't have one, consider a Roku. Brilliant item. And, no, they're not paying me to express my love for the little black box. It's just another awesome thing that I think you should know about it and get for yourself.

And now, back to the sofa and my "Veronica Mars" Season One Netflix marathon. Ahh, air conditioning, the La-Z-Boy, a pitcher of ice water, and good TV. On a hot summer night, that's all you need.

The sizzle you hear...

2010-07-04T18:02:00.003-04:00

...is not meat on a grill. It's the Washington area, gearing up for a week of weather worthy of Hades itself.

It's currently 94F here in DC - and that reading is likely in the shade. For the poor, patriotic bastards (an estimated 500,000 strong - eek!) hunkered down in the direct sun on the National Mall, it's got to feel like it's over 100. I bet the DC paramedics are doing a booming business with heat exhaustion cases today as people wait hours and hours for the festivities to begin.

I've done the 4th of July on the Mall before, but from the relative comfort and safety of the roof garden at the National Air & Space Museum during my time as a Star Wars exhibit volunteer. Gotta say, that *was* pretty damn awesome. But now that I've done it once, I don't have to do it again. The crowds, the traffic, and the heat just add up to an urban nightmare, and - call me a loner loser - watching fireworks in hi-def in my air conditioned living room (on a spine-friendly sofa) gets the thumbs up this year.

Back home in Illinois, I used to love going out to watch the fireworks. There's something very comforting about the sense of small(ish) town community with neighbor-strangers, chilling on blankets and the backs of pick-up trucks, all ooh-ing and aah-ing together over the modest pyrotechnics. Traffic was rarely bad leaving the gathering site, and we were always home in a few minutes to unload the cooler and shake off some grass from the hillside where we'd plopped down to enjoy the display.

But here, it's different. The flag-waving camaraderie dies faster than the dissipating smoke, and it's a massive heat stroke clusterfrak- and a half a tank of gas or a stifling, claustrophobic squishfest on the Metro - just to get out of downtown. Go with God, Mall watchers! I'll have a gin & tonic and raise it in your honor as the John Philip Sousa plays. I'll celebrate the holiday tomorrow with the Sasquatch as we picnic indoors with filet mignon (thank you, Harris Teeter, for marking down the nice steak to cheaper-than-hamburger prices!!), watermelon, and a good flick on the Roku.

Though it's a (federal) holiday for some - including me - Mother Nature is officially heralding Hellish Work Week '10 tomorrow with a 98F scorcher. I return to the office slog on Tuesday, when we're expecting a high of 101F. And kiddies, that does NOT include the heat index. Weatherdudes are saying that should feel like something between 105 - 110F.

Drink up and be merry tonight, DC friends, for Satan himself is ready to put the screws to us for several days in a row. Stay hydrated, slather on the sunscreen, and, for now, happy holidays!!

It's that time of year again...

2010-07-03T19:28:00.004-04:00

...when most of the hits on my blog are fireworks-hungry people looking for information about that Midwestern Mecca of explosives, Krazy Kaplans:

The sign says "Buy 1, get 6 free!" but that was 2006.
Their (awful) website says "buy one, get one free!"
Damn economy!!!

I wonder how many guv'ment lists I just got added to by having the words "Mecca" and "explosives" in the same sentence. (Kinda joking, but sadly not entirely joking.)

Happy 4th of July, friends! Picnic well, wear lots of sunscreen and mosquito repellent, and may your fireworks be "ooh and ahh" worthy!

Laying off "The Office"

2010-06-30T21:22:00.009-04:00

So, Steve Carell has announced that he is leaving NBC's marquee sitcom, "The Office" after this coming season. Carell's a talented guy, but I'm glad he's moving on. His departure may ring the death knell for the show, but I think it's time anyway. Pack up the docu-comedy cameras, kids, and good riddance to the insecurely egotistical character of Michael Scott, the manager everyone loves to hate.

Well, maybe everyone except me.

Over time, I've just come to hate him. There's less and less "love" in my painful observation of his behavior. I laugh infrequently now, and I shudder more. Yeah, I get that we're supposed to be appalled by Michael's ineptitude and boorishness, yet pity his wretchedness. But, honestly, my willing suspension of disbelief is no longer willing.

I've reached a point where I just really want someone to:

1. fire his ass
2. slap him with a workplace harassment suit
3. coldcock him for being such a big weasel

I would also like for Jim to take some calcium tablets and strengthen his spine. And for Dwight to be canned and/or arrested for some of the crap he's pulled.

Yes, I know it's just a TV show. And yes, I can just turn the channel. But after a viewing investment of several seasons, you still want it to be as good as it once was; the decline starts to wear on you more than a little. Just like Michael Scott's obnoxiousness.

I know the writers want to keep their jobs. And, in order to keep their jobs, they will churn out what the network wants/needs. The network, in turn, needs to appeal to the largest common denominator groups that punch their Nielsen buttons and buy the cars and fast food and alternatives to The Pill that they advertise. (Side note: anyone else terrified by the side effects listed in those ads for Mirena, the intrauterine device? HOLY SHIT! That is the stuff of nightmares!!)

So, the network asks the writers to keep churning out "Michael Scott is an HR horror story who still manages to keep a job and his staff stays on board, despite many opportunities to sue him and the whole company" scripts for a group of increasingly one-note characters. And, after this coming season? Well, there's the problem - you can't really lay a foundation for success with a group of one-note characters left in the wake of Carell's departure.

It's a tired premise. And - speaking as someone who was once in a real-life miserable work situation - increasingly frustrating to watch. It's just not all that funny anymore. Are there still moments of comedic brilliance and warmth? Sure. But they come in flashes now (take Andy and Erin's romantic kiss in the middle of the city dump.) I don't fault the writers as much as I fault the network for not knowing when to say "when." Take a page from the UK TV playbook, NBC. Know when to stop flogging your superior workhorse before it actually *is* dead.

I'm just not feeling the pathos anymore.

And, seriously, what documentary team is hanging around this one office so long? That's a production team that maxed out their personal credit cards (and their parents' credit cards!) a long time ago. Sundance? Christ, if they were real, they'd be doing a pole dance soon to make rent!

It's time to downsize the Scranton office. And Michael Scott? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, son.

No lions and tigers and bears, but...

2010-06-27T10:40:00.009-04:00

Pink eye and deadlines and insomnia (oh my!) and a drunk neighbor playing ZZ Top's "Legs" over and over again at the 1 a.m. hour is no way to go through life, son. The neighbor and the itchy eye didn't let me sleep until about 3 a.m. Again. Same as the night before. Ugh!

But up I'm now, and I understand that the weather is going to be as miserable today as last Thursday, when we were crushed with a 104-degree heat index. (Yes, my European friends, that's 104F - as close to the surface of the sun as I care to get, thanks.) So, it's a fine day to do some writing and then curl up with a book and a glass of wine in the safety and comfort of the air conditioning here at Chez Merde.

Hope your Sunday is sunny, friends! (But less skin-sizzling and eye-frying than here.)

I'm off to write about a dead pony. This dead pony, as a matter of fact:

Fig. 1: Dead, stuffed pony. Creepily smiling, dead, stuffed pony.

Intrigued? Horrified? Hopefully both. And, when I'm done and you hear the story, I'll hope you'll be intriguingly, horrifically amused. I'll leave you with that for now. :) Now, where is my corkscrew? It's 5 o'clock somewhere, right?

Back in the Saddle Again

2010-06-19T19:47:00.006-04:00

At last! My muse is out of rehab.

Fig. 1: Before

Fig. 2: After

Went to Mayorga in King Farm for the first time in eons and spent a couple of hours with pen and paper. No laptop, no distractions, no messin' around. Nursed a skim milk sugar-free iced mocha (with a shot of sugar free Irish creme) and pounded out a few pages of text.

It was good.

Welcome back, muse. I'm not sure what cut-rate version of Promises Malibu you were in, but they did a fine job!

In my hands, a faded history

2010-06-06T21:23:00.017-04:00

It's D-Day. The Sixth of June.

It's the 42nd birthday of my dear, wonderful friend, the Sasquatch. The 24th anniversary of my father's death. And, of course, it's the 66th anniversary of the Invasion of Normandy.

Big day at Chez Merde. Lots of memories. Some good, some bad.

Some, simply sad.

For me, the family sadness of D-Day starts a little more than a year before the beaches were taken at Juno, Gold, Omaha, Utah, and Sword. In April 1943, my mother was training to be a WASP, and her brother, a Naval aviator, was in the Pacific, flying carrier-based bombers.

My mom's brother, Franklin

Mom had only been at Avenger Field in Texas a few weeks when she got the first of two telegraphs on the same day.

First, one came from her father:

And then, another, from the Navy:

In her wartime photo scrapbook, Mom would later write:

"Telegram from Navy arrived notifying me that my brother was missing in action - found out later from other navy pilots that he was bombing Bougainville from a converted carrier (USS Chenango) based at Guadalcanal - his flight disappeared in vicinity of a tropical storm. Not known if they ever reached their target."

Franklin would never be found. So many men were lost in the Pacific Theater, there wasn't enough space to put all their names on the memorial at Pearl Harbor. Franklin's name is inscribed on a memorial in the Philippines. Mom wanted to see it someday, but never made it there.

Lt. Junior Grade George F. Hardman

While serving at New Castle (Delaware) Army Air Force Base after training, Mom requested a posting on the West Coast, to be closer to her family in Nevada. She felt her father and stepmother would be comforted to see her once in a while. The military, of course, had an odd idea of "West" and eventually, in 1944, posted her to Fairfax Field in Kansas City, Missouri and then to Officer Candidate School in Orlando, Florida, where Mom met Dad.

During my parents' whirlwind courtship, Mom's beloved stepbrother Jack - a man who had already done a good amount of time in uniform - re-enlisted for military service after a recruiter came through town, talking up paratrooping. Along with thousands of other young American men, he shipped out to Northern Ireland in advance of Operation Overlord.

Jack Quaid (on left) with two buddies, Northern Ireland, 1944

D-Day came and went, with expected radio silence from Jack; no one expected any word from the men in France in the days just following the invasion. Back home, my parents married on June 24, 1944 on a sweltering day in Richfield, Minnesota. And less than a month later, on July 20th, Mom got another terrible telegram:

A few days later came the crushing blow:

Jack had died at Sainte-Mère Église, which was the heart of the airborne operations for D-Day, with many men dropping right into the center of the town. Mom's handwritten notes in her scrapbook tell the story:

"(Jack) killed while setting up a roadblock by mortar shell a few days after parachuting into Normandy June 6, 1944."

Jack was buried at the American cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, but his widow had him repatriated and reburied in Reno. This upset Mom - she felt Jack should have stayed in France alongside his fallen brothers in the well-tended, much-revered cemetery not far from Omaha Beach. But we all mourn in our own way, and Jack's wife needed him home. She needed something tangible. I can understand that.

Lt. John A. "Jack" Quaid, Northern Ireland, just before D-Day

The only tangibles I have of these lives are the snapshots and notes Mom kept from a lifetime ago. I never knew them except through her words and these images. I think I would have liked these guys. Mom adored her brothers, and while I'm sure their memories became a little idealized in death and mourning and celebration, I have confidence that they were pretty damn fine men.

Rest in peace, uncles I did not know. I'm glad Mom left fragments of your stories behind for me to ponder. I wish I knew you better.

In my hands, your faded history
A stack of yellowed photographs
And crumbling Western Union words
I puzzle out how much you meant
To people I did know and love

Assembled telegrams, your faces smile
But no voices speak your story
I wonder who you would have been
Had you not been cut short by war
Now just
Fragile
Tear-stained bookmarks in a life

Ten.

2010-06-02T23:38:00.006-04:00

I was flat broke this last holiday weekend. Lots of bills came due at the same time. Co-pays due for some medical tests. And, the State of Maryland (or the USPS) managed to lose my 2009 tax return and accompanying check. The kicker was the double whammy of having to redo my taxes, pay late fees and interest, and then cough up $36 for a stop payment fee to my bank. Hilariously, the Maryland tax clerk I worked with to resubmit my taxes said, "Well, why stop the payment? We can just cash that check and apply it to your account."

Right.

Because everyone can just cough up their taxes twice.

Of course.

As I sat in her cubicle - festooned with dachshund photos and posters - and waited for her help, she was looking at pictures of Donald Trump on a celebrity gossip website. "This guy," she drawled in a heavy Eastern European accent. "How he gets all these pretty women, huh? Money. That's it. Money."

Yes, babe. It's money. And that's what I came to discuss with you.

An hour later, I'd had my taxes done (again.) Wrote a new check. Got the hell out.

Amusingly, this adventure in civil service was followed up by a letter to me from the State of Maryland, stating I owed them money for 2009. This letter was dated after they cashed my replacement check.

Not sure which part of the holiday weekend I enjoyed more: that letter, repeated bloodletting with cranky people bearing needles, or the arrival of DC's stinky swamp heat.

Actually, I know what I enjoyed most: spending time with the Sasquatch. My friend is a damn good guy (and it's his birthday on Sunday, so Happy Birthday, buddy - a wee bit in advance.) We grilled steaks indoors for Memorial Day. Grill pans rock. So does picnic food in glorious air conditioned splendor. Ahhhhh!

We feasted and then watched a strange little Norwegian zombie horror film called "Dead Snow." The big difference between American and Norwegian zombie horror flicks? The Norwegian ones have much more beautiful scenery for blood splatter and the zombies are Nazis who have been holed up in the mountains since WWII. Good times, good times.

Otherwise, there's little difference between the Scandahooligan and American horror formula: hot guys and girls go to a cabin for a weekend of drinking and sex; old guy shows up to offer ominous pronouncement about terrifying things in the woods; there is beer; there is music; there is cabin sex; and then, there is blood, guts, and lots of screaming.

The most horrific part of this film? The cabin sex. All I will say is, it took place in an outhouse, there should have been lots of Purell applied to someone's hands, it made me dry heave, and it will be a cold day in Hell before I kiss anyone's fingertips.

Let's just leave it at that, shall we?

Along with the zombie picnic in my living room, the Sasquatch and I made a trek to the Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse-sized repository of used books that is Second Story Books in Rockville. I had cleared out a good quarter of my books in the hopes they might buy them from me and give me a little grocery/gas cash for the coming work week. Alas, no cash was to be given. But I did get forty bucks in credit.

So I could buy more books to fill the holes in my shelves.

When I'd started pulling books from my shelves the night before, some papers fluttered out from the pages of an oversized hardback book I hadn't opened since, most likely, high school. There was a big promotional photo from a Moline High School production of "Blithe Spirit" (in which I played Madame Arcati, the extra large medium) and my membership certificate in the International Thespian Society. Dear lord! And then, there was a pencil sketch from 1976 of a bright-eyed girl with her hair pulled back, looking confident, assured, and with much less frizz framing her face than I remembered.

It was a sketch done by an artist working from a kiosk at South Park Mall back in Moline, Illinois. I remember going to the mall with my mom and vainly asking if I could have my portrait done. Not sure why Mom gave in and let me get immortalized in pencil, but she did. The result was a confident, butter-couldn't-melt-in-her-mouth idealized image of a kid who really was rather homely and couldn't drag a brush through her thick hair without hitting a tangled snag. I would like to have known this self-assured kid on the yellowed paper.

And, after a little reflection on life and how things have changed over the years, I realized I did know this kid. This was me at ten. And I was happy - mostly unaware of the ugliness of the world, believing in the adventures out there, instead. And it mattered less then that I was a homely, fat kid with tangled hair. I didn't know I'd be a lonely fat chick at 44. I didn't know then that I would be filled with regrets at things missed or lost - marriage, family, children. I was just happy.

For the most part.

As readers of my blog know, I was already being bullied back then, and, just as now, I couldn't fathom it. I see the name of the sister of my tormentor on Facebook comments now and then, and I have to fight the urge to ask her if he's still a miserable jerk. But then, I take deep breaths and simply hope he hasn't passed along a legacy of hate and cruelty to any children in his home.

And, instead making that the icon for that time, I try to think back to ten and remember the things that made me happy: my friends, riding my bike, reading, singing, swimming in the city pool all summer. (To this day, "Silly Love Songs" by Paul McCartney and Wings will remind me of going to the pool, which sat below a cemetery hillside that shelters one of Charles Dickens' sons among the daughters and sons of a city of industry.)

I'm trying to develop an adult sense of that happiness I had back in childhood. Some of it is gone forever, of course. Some things will never fill the empty spots where a partner or child would have been. But there are basic joys common to all ages. I lost a lot of that in recent years, and I'm working on rediscovering it. Simple pleasures for simple people with shallow pockets.

Here's to hoping I can find it. And here I am at ten:

Naïve in a tractor town
The world not yet so fearful
Of bubble gum cigarettes
And swing sets over cement
You walked home alone from
Barely-lit parks in the dark

Unafraid at ten

Metallic yellow Schwinn with
Plastic tasseled glitter handles
Banana seat and bell
Flying down chipped concrete to
Prospect Pond at high speed
Hands and feet outstretched, no brakes

Unbroken at ten

Frizzy hair unruly in
Long brunette curls and tangles
A fat girl in tight shorts and
Homemade smocks with
Heart-shaped pockets that
All made you cringe years later

But

Unaware at ten

Taunted on the long walk home
Bully target painted wide
On a slow-running back
A taste of grown-up cruelty
Disguised as a boy named Kevin
Who carried a plastic bat

Already a little crack appears

At ten

Motivated

2010-05-31T23:48:00.003-04:00

So much I want to do. So, so, so much. So tired of being gimpy. Gym bag packed for tomorrow. Not sure at what point in the day I'll be able to escape to the workout room at the office, but I will. There are some fires eating through my desk and I need to achieve progress on some major projects for work, but I need to get a lot achieved for me, too.

Here goes nuthin'...

Booyah!

A Grateful Nation

2010-05-31T09:59:00.005-04:00

For all those who served and died in defense of this nation, be at peace.

(My parents' gravesites, Rock Island Arsenal National Cemetery)

For all who served and struggled and gave,

(Mom)

And for all those who serve today,

(Dad)

Thank you.

(And thanks to my sister Betsi for these photos -
and to her daughter Maddie for the idea of going out to honor her grandparents.)

Words from a notebook

2010-05-30T12:29:00.009-04:00

My home is scattered with notebooks and sketchbooks. Some are still blank, waiting to be filled. Others are dotted - or clotted - with half-baked ideas and images. Projects abandoned, ideas scribbled, threads lost. But when I reopen one of these used books, I often find rough, but fundamentally good concepts and wonder why I ditched them. Once in a while, I just find lines of hurried text and I can't remember where I was when I wrote them. And sometimes, I can't quite read my own handwriting. Meanings get muddled and changed.

I just opened a small, fat, green notebook, looking for blank pages to jot down some expectations I have about my health and what exercise I'm doing daily. Turning through page after page of conference call doodles and car accident information (far too much of that!) I came to an empty page at last.

Facing that first empty page were these words:

I can't see the face of the guy across from me - hidden by mirror - but he has the sexiest voice and good shoes.

But, on my initial squinty reading of my crabbed writing, I thought it read "he has the secret voice and good shoes."

And I sat here, trying to remember this moment, and wondered, just what was this secret voice? How did he use it? Will I ever hear it again?

Then, I squinted, and saw my mistake. Ah! Sexiest voice and good shoes. Got it.

But it was less mysterious. Less interesting.

I like my erroneous read better. I like the thought of a man with a secret voice. One only I could hear. There's some strange power there.

I'd like to hear it again.

Must have been a helluva pair of shoes, too.

Just a thought for the day

2010-05-25T07:33:00.006-04:00

I haven't shared many quotes with you here at the Church of the Big Sky, but this one's really good. I saw it on a friend's Facebook page, and the message is pretty meaningful to me these days.

"There's a trick to the Graceful Exit. It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, a relationship is over -- and to let go. It means leaving what's over without denying its validity or its past importance in our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving on rather than out." –Ellen Goodman

I've learned a lot about letting go in the past couple of years. Often, it's not an easy process, but I hope to eventually master the Graceful Exit. I think about this a lot and spend a little time each day reflecting on change. Where there is conflict and misunderstanding that I cannot resolve, I engage on a campaign of actively wishing people well and hoping for them to find a happy path. It doesn't always work, but I'm trying. I can only hope that people wish the same for me. I have no control over that though. I can only hope that others move on, too, and find wonderful ways to fill the potholes left behind on the path.

How do you achieve balance and handle difficult change and endings in your life? I'm genuinely curious about what works for you and gives you peace and closure.

2010-05-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

Just a Note to the Makers of Lost

2010-05-23T11:42:00.004-04:00

Dear Writer and Producer Types @ Lost:

I know it's too late to ask you, since, like, the die is cast and time travel doesn't exist and all that, but...

Please don't kill off Hurley tonight. Please?

That would really be bad. Really, really bad.

Thank you,

Merujo

P.S. I think y'all missed the boat with a sure-fire product tie-in opportunity. From my ramblings back in 2006:

"I can't help but wonder if the cast & crew of "Lost" has developed a taste for SPAM during their time in Hawaii... You know, maybe instead of mac and cheese, the Lost folk should have found a pallet of SPAM tins in last night's episode. Then, SPAM could have had a great promotional tie-in: limited edition "Lost" SPAM. Collect each character's special tin! I want my Hurley SPAM tin!! (This is one of those moments when I wish I had mad Photoshoppin' skillz...)

'Hey, I got two Lockes! Trade you a Locke for a Hurley.'

SPAM: the official potted meat of ABC TV."

:)

Working on it...

2010-05-22T13:24:00.012-04:00

It seems like it's getting harder and harder to find good blocks of time to blog these days. Work is very busy, and I'm trying to spend less time on my butt in front of the keyboard when I'm not at the office. I'm doing fly lady-style cleaning today. Zones and fifteen minute increments of focused activity. This is easier on the cranky spine, bad knee, and all the rest of that junk, but sometimes hard for an inveterate procrasinator used to cramming work into splintering 100-yard dashes.

I have a list of twelve items to achieve today, and that's before even going out to run quick errands. So, here I am, briefly in front of the keyboard before moving on to dusting bookshelves and getting a load of dishes started. Five minutes to write, fifteen to tidy.

So, what's new, eh?

My June/July issue of Smithsonian Air & Space magazine arrived this week, and, before I even got inside the apartment I flipped to the back to see the "In the Next Issue" page. And, lo and behold, there it was - a blurb about my article! Hooray!! So, now, it's very real. I've had a couple of questions to answer for the "top edit" this week (when the article goes through review/edit by folks at the top of the magazine edit cycle) and those were easy to handle, I'm glad to say. For two of the three questions, I even had footnoted references. One question was the result of my foolishness, putting an anecdote into a paragraph where the timing of the event became nebulous. I offered a mea culpa and a clarification on where and when the story took place, and so far, no more queries. I get to see a layout of the piece in a couple of weeks. Most excellent!

I have some ideas in mind for radio commentary, if I can find some time when I'm feeling the muse giving me a scalp massage. So far, she has been elusive. But I hope to pin that wench down soon. I also need to finish the first draft of my "livin' in Moscow" book, which I had to set aside when the back put me through torture last autumn. So many pages fluttering around, so little mental discipline to finish it all. (Grumble.)

I hope all you usual suspects are happy, healthy, and doing well. And I'm sorry I've fallen off the blog-reading wagon of late. That requires a muse of its own. Maybe the Olivia Newton-John rollerskating muse from "Xanadu."

Hmm...

Muse or no muse, I'll slap some Ben-Gay on my back and aim to make the rounds of the regular suspects soon, as well as add more of my own words here on the screen. No promises, but a good faith effort to try.

A final thought that will have meaning only to folks I know through the Thomas Dolby world. After fourteen years of providing a link to fans of Mr. Dolby - and keeping his most loyal followers in the know - the Alloy fan mailing list is closing down. I've been the owner of the list since 2006, and I've tried to keep it alive. But, with the official website, a new official announcement list, and new music on the horizon (including a new EP being mixed in LA as I type!), Alloy has reached the end of its path. After consultation with Thomas, we determined that it was time for me to close it down. Most folks have been understanding, and, while many are sad to see it go, it's time.

I just want to say thank you to Thomas for his support and encouragement (and music!) and to all the members of the list for having been part of this community for so long. To all of the Alloy folks: be well, find the path that makes you happy, and I hope to see you out on the Flat Earth Society!

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-08T22:21:00.003-04:00

To all the mothers I know, I wish you a day surrounded by love and appreciation for all you do. I respect, admire, and envy you. Peace and love to you all on this - and every - day.

Mom at Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas, 1943.

Hooray! My WASP article has a publish date!

2010-03-29T21:06:00.004-04:00

Just heard from my editor at Smithsonian Air & Space magazine. My feature about Mom, her time in the WASP, and the experience of growing up with a extraordinary woman for a parent is now set for the August 2010 issue of the magazine!

YAY!!

When we get closer to the publish date, I'll post a reminder (and, dear friends, you'll be hearing directly from me, too) so you can pick up your copy at your local news stand. :) It'll be my goal to see this issue sell out!!

And there will be web extras, too - those of you who have never heard my mom's voice will get a chance to hear her tell stories in her own voice.

Can it get any cooler?

Been a good day. A good creative day. Got loads of stuff done for the 9-5, worked to help a new friend make some (hopefully very fruitful) contacts, and got this good news on the article!

I'm going to ride this good feeling as long as I can.

Got an hour before the DVR kicks in for both Law & Order and Castle. Time to do the dishes, so I wake up to a shiny, clean sink. Trust me, there's some Zen in that.

Later, gators!

Back in black! (and white)

2010-03-27T17:02:00.006-04:00

Playing catch-up with myself this weekend. Aggressive napping, coffee, fly-lady-style cleaning, laundry, laundry, laundry, more rest, and a little junk food entertainment in the form of "2012" courtesy of RedBox and the planet-hating mind of Roland Emmerich.

I ended up with tendonitis in my shoulder, elbow, and knee as a side effect of an antibiotic for my recent, deeply evil sinus infection, so I'm doing everything quite slowly right now. And yes, sadly, that includes writing. So, give me a few days, and I'll be back in the saddle again. Had family staying with me for two weeks surrounding the WASP Congressional Gold Medal events, and I'm still not fully back on my normal body clock. (Didn't help that we did the "spring forward" thang in the midst of the mix.)

Many stories to tell - about the ceremony, about going to Udvar-Hazy for the first time, about getting teary-eyed repeatedly, about having an extra-long slumber party with the siblings - but I'm cutting my gimpy right arm some slack this weekend. For now, here's a not-entirely-flattering picture of me at the Capitol, having just retrieved Mom's copy of the Congressional Gold Medal. This is about as "Capitol Hill" as you will *ever* see me. Dry-cleaned jacket, pearls, and all:

Of course, I'm also wearing a Snoopy watch with the words "ARF! ARF!" on the face. Hey - it's a step up from my Starkist 30th anniversary Charlie the Tuna watch with the velcro band. This one has an actual 100% faux leather band. From China, even!

(Oooooooh!)

More soon. I owe so many of you notes and hugs through the ether!!

Yours in post-visitor recovery,

Merujo

Today was Mom's day

2010-03-10T19:10:00.003-05:00

A day for all WASP, all women who fly, and all women who serve to protect and defend our nation.

Time for stories and photos later. Now, time to rest mind and body.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln...

2010-03-01T22:09:00.005-05:00

...how was the play?

So, how was your day, kids?

Here's how mine started:

I forget I have cinnamon scattered all over my bathroom floor to kill the leetle, tiny, obnoxious ants that have taken up residence by my shower like it's an Insectoid Motel 6. With my eyeglasses off, all I see is a sea of what looks like dried blood and I have this brief, heart-stopping Psycho moment. Then I get a whiff of the redness, and I'm cool.

Until I discover the ants have moved from outside the shower into the shower. I should have worn my glasses. Nothing like feeling ants under your feet in the freakin' shower. Uuuuuuuuunnnnnghhhhhhuhhhhhhh.

Then, I hear what sounds like someone being loud on the street. No big deal. Until I haul my nekkidness out of the shower only to discover some frakking HVAC technician has entered my apartment and is doing repairs a few feet away from my birthday-suited self.

First time in a long time I have screamed bloody murder. And, quite possibly, the first time ever I've had to yell, "OMIGOD, GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT! I'M NAKED HERE!!"

Sure, single straight women in their 40s hope to have a guy share some a.m. naked time with them now and then. Just not some uninvited dude bleeding the HVAC unit. (And no, "bleeding the HVAC unit" is not a euphemism for anything. I hope.)

I was the angriest woman in the world as I got dressed. Called the condo office and spit bullets through the phone. "Could you tell your guys that, if they hear a shower running when they come in to do work, that maybe - just maybe - they should LEAVE?!?"

Does it get any better? Oh, hell yeah. Of course it does. I found out my PIP insurance coverage for the last car accident is exhausted. No more physical therapy. Just in time for me to have tendonitis in my elbow and shoulder, probably thanks to the weird-ass side effects of the antibiotic I just got done taking. Nothing says "hello world" like the weak wave of someone with rotator cuff pain.

Then, I drive downtown only to discover that my parking garage is closed for, as the sign says, "Emergency Renovations." What the hell is that? QUICK! Call an interior designer! STAT!

When I finally find the temporary garage a few blocks away, I ask one of the guys what "Emergency Renovations" means. "Concrete failure," he said. Uhh, what? "Concrete failure?" Another guy comes up to me and whispers that part of the floor just gave way. Wham bang, a hellmouth opened in my parking garage. Lovely. "Emergency Renovations" = "Concrete failure" = big hole in floor = crappy construction. Got it.

But, I'll echo what my boss pointed out to me this afternoon: for once, my car and I managed to dodge a bullet. I wasn't there when the Garage Hellmouth appeared.

I guess I should just count the day as some sort of success, right?

By the way, should I count being nekkid with the repair guy outside the bathroom door as a date? It's probably as close as I'll get this year.

There you go, 2010. A raving success. Disaster avoided. Nakedness in same space with breathing male achieved.

Good night, one and all, and gawd bless.

Mom makes the local paper

2010-03-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

I know, I'm sucking with the writing right now. Been sick. (As if that's a surprise to any of you.)

Ended up with what the ear/nose/throat guy called "the worst sinus infection (he'd seen) in years." Then ended up on an antibiotic that killed my appetite, my balance, my sense of taste/smell, blurred out my vision and gave me joint pain.

SUPER!

On a positive note, my sinus infection is gone now.

Meanwhile, here's a little piece about Mom from this morning's Quad City Times, from back in my hometown. Neat that they include a link to a 1999 story they ran about her, too.

I'll get back up on the blogging horse in earnest in a couple of weeks. Just have to ride/reap/and subdue the whirlwind right now.

Later, gators!

A Celebration Long Overdue

2010-02-25T16:59:00.005-05:00

Few words today. Just a couple of important images for you. If you're a regular here at the Church, you know about my mom. And the time has finally come for Mom and her fellow WASP to receive their due, in the form of the Congressional Gold Medal.

Just wish Mom was here to experience it all herself.

Busy as a bee (cough, cough, hack, cough)

2010-02-15T01:58:00.005-05:00

Yep, I briefly fell off the side of the planet. Slid clear off and went radio silent for a bit.

Been busy. Busy, busy, busy.

In a few weeks, four of my siblings will be descending upon Chez Merde here for a very important event. For those who don't know, my mom and her fellow WASP will be honored next month with the Congressional Gold Medal for their service to our nation in World War II. The ceremony will take place in the Capitol Rotunda on March 10th. It's been a long time coming, and we're all thrilled. Just wish Mom could be here herself for the celebration.

In anticipation of my crackerbox apartment being Ground Zero for family staging, I've been cleaning, donating, and generally reorganizing the living daylights out of my living space. It's always been a mish-mosh junk heap of souvenirs of My Strange Life Abroad, and my attempts at downsizing have been hilarious and frustrating all at once.

And, of course, I managed to come down with bronchitis in the middle of the muddle. This was not unexpected, as my semi-annual respiratory distress was due, and always shows up at the most inconvenient time. A few days into coughing and sneezing my head off, something super fun happened.

We had a blizzard.

And then, my power went out.

For 60 hours.

When you are sick and your head and lungs are compromised, there's nothing like nearly three days of Little House on the Prairie living to make things worse. By the time the power came back on, I could see my breath in the apartment (which has one wall that's nearly all glass, thanks to the balcony, which doubled as my fridge during the outage.) I ate servings of cold crockpot chili (disgusting) that I kept cool in a snowbank on the balcony. It was gross, but I was damn lucky I'd made that pot of relatively nourishing grub just before the power went out. By the end, I could have just keep the stuff chilled in the apartment itself; it was 35F in my living room by then, and my chest was rattling painfully with each cough.

Some of my neighbors had made their escape on the second day, digging out from the 30" inches that fell on our 'hood. My back and my lungs were just not up to the dig at that point. I did go out on Day Two only to find that a plow had created a five-foot wide, yard-deep wall behind my car. I hoisted my white flag and returned to the apartment and the slight warmth of my sofa.

I spent the last full day quite literally hibernating in the cold, unmoving, swaddled in blankets and multiple layers of clothing, with a large piece of fleece I'd planned to cut up for scarves, wrapped loosely around my head. I looked like some crazy 18th century poet, shuffling around the frosty space of my hovel. Oh, I would have killed for a fireplace. By the end, I was considering starting a fire on the balcony.

No. I'm not kidding.

Fire, good.

I *did* have a battery-operated radio, a flashlight, and candles. Febreeze candles. "Pumpkin Harvest" Febreeze candles. If I *NEVER* smell pumpkin spice again, it will be too soon. Far too soon.

WAMU (our NPR station here in the DC area) and WTOP (local news/weather) kept me company. I especially appreciated Ed Walker's Big Broadcast that last cold night. I had just my nose exposed from under the fleece and layers as I listened to drama, suspense, and wonderful old comedies from the golden age of radio in the otherwise silent dark.

With the help of dear friends - and just in time for the next storm to smack us - my car was unburied and I was free, at last! But my office was closed for a whole week, and despite the fact that I'm still sick, I'm eager to get the hell out of my apartment and see people other than the grocery clerks at Harris Teeter and the guys at the Montgomery County package store. (I bought a bottle of Irish whiskey -- hoping a shot at night will help me stop coughing and get me back on a semi-normal sleep schedule. Fat lot of good it's doing right now, of course -- I'm typing this at 2:20 in the blessed ayem!)

Even though I've been home for over a week now, I never quite got caught up on all that cleaning frenzy I'd started before the storms. Been too wussy to do much. Books for donation are piled all over the place, bags for Salvation Army spill into the entryway. Maybe I'll be overcome with the Olympic spirit and some "citius, altius, fortius" mojo will get my butt back in gear. I have 20 days before I'm the hostess with (slightly less than) the mostest. And there's that little thing called "work" in there somewhere, too.

Plus, I'm starting an art class this week: Drawing 101 for Grown-ups (more or less) at the local community college. I haven't taken a class for so long, I'm not sure if I have the attention span to sit for a couple of hours once a week.

We shall see.

Wish me luck.

Pat Robertson and the Bullet Train to Hell

2010-01-13T21:21:00.006-05:00

In honor of Pat Robertson's batshit crazy statement today that the earthquake that has devastated Haiti was the result of a pact with the devil, I present to you this vintage entry from the Church of the Big Sky: some intercepted correspondence from God to his meshugah child, Pat Robertson.

With prayers for the people of Haiti,

Merujo

P.S. Just did a search for all my entries tagged "Pat Robertson." Oh, what an archive!

And so it ends.

2009-12-31T01:35:00.004-05:00

It's New Year's Eve.

The sun has not risen, nor have I slept yet. But the last day of a difficult year has begun. I can't say a lot of positive things about 2009, and I look forward to sweeping it out the door tonight.

But for now, it's time to brush my teeth, curl up under a warm blanket and prepare for the wintry mix that will greet the sun as this year - and this decade - winds down.

More words when I have coffee and daylight.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T15:03:00.002-05:00

From the resident holi-dork here at the Church of the Big Sky
to each and every one of you fine folks:
I hope you are surrounded with love and joy today.

Be well, and be merry!

Cheers!

A Weather Report from the Bottom of the Stairs

2009-12-19T17:37:00.002-05:00

Went out to snap a photo of my balcony lights, but I couldn't get out in from of them -- there's 17 1/2 inches of snow in the yard as of right now, and the snow shows no signs of stopping.

Not so snazzy with the flash on...

And still not so snazzy -- it's 26F outside,
and I had to take off my gloves to take photos.
Shaky, shaky, frozen hands, but you get the idea...

Not such an attractive angle, but proof of life, eh?

I was trying to shoot the gentle yellow light
cast on the pathway across the street.
Too far away for anything good,
but I love the effect of the snow on the image...

Looks like some retro-60's interior design motive, no?

Fuzzy image of the path across the street.
Came out kinda cool and impressionistic.
I like it.

Baby, it's cold outside!

2009-12-19T14:53:00.004-05:00

And very, very white...

The forecast last night...

The view from the balcony, around noon today...

The trees are all weighed down...

We have at least 12 inches out here,
and the storm still has hours to go...

No plows have come down my little dead-end. I've seen only two or three folks trudging through the snow. It's blissfully quiet, and, for now, the power is still on. With our forecast revised to keep us in the 20s/30s all week, we'll be sure to keep this for a white Christmas Eve. But, in true DC style, it'll be 47F and raining on Christmas Day. Go figure!

Attention Facebook!

2009-12-13T22:59:00.005-05:00

STOP PUTTING OFFENSIVE ADS ON MY FACEBOOK PAGE, OKAY?

Yes, I was just yelling there like a 60-year-old with the caps lock on, and I apologize, but it was done with just cause. Look, I totally get that Facebook data-mines the living shit out of our accounts and then posts what their little advert-bots believe appropriate. But there are limits to my tolerance.

I'm single. I get that. I'm over 40. I get that, too. In response to my demographic, dear Facebook, you keep offering me dating site ads. Over and over and frigging over again. No matter how many times I tap your little button for "uninteresting" (I'm not looking for "rich guys over 40") or "irrelevant" (I'm NOT a single mom looking for a single dad), you keep giving more of the same crap. This is annoying.

The ad that's really pissing me off, though? It's this one:

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Someone scrawls "I Like Larger Women" in the handwriting of a child with carpal tunnel, and that's supposed to encourage me to click and find a man? WTF?

I mean, seriously - WTF?

Here - look at it enlarged. Let's get a good look at the crapvertising:

Because larger women enjoy the company of douchebags
who mouse-write hot pink text in MS Paint!

I have punched the "OFFENSIVE" button for this piece of poop again and again and again, and it keeps showing up.

Guess what, Facebook? It's disrespectful to ignore folks when they point out something that offends - especially when YOU'RE the one who asks if it offends! It is as if to say, "Yes, yes - you claim to be offended, but c'mon, large woman! We think you really DO want this! After all, we've mined your information to verify your fatness and decided that you are such a romantic bottomfeeder, you don't even deserve an ad that tries at all to impress. Instead, here, have an ad that says, 'You clearly don't care. We don't either.' "

Yuck.

Babycakes, I am a larger woman, and, honey, I deserve a lot better than scrawled bullshit on some crappy ad.

C'mon, Facebook. If one of your members clicks on the word "OFFENSIVE" in response to an ad, is it really that tough to make sure that piece of shite doesn't show up again? Hell, do you even vet these ads before they show up? I mean, really.

Sports Stars Who Can't Keep It in Their Pants: the Anagram Edition

2009-12-12T12:14:00.007-05:00

There's an online anagram generator that a friend posted to Facebook a couple of months back. Through it, I discovered that the best anagram for my name was "JAIL OR MADNESS." This amused me greatly. Hell, I'm probably bound down one of those routes.

For some reason this morning, I decided to enter Tiger Woods' name into the anagram generator, and I laughed out loud at the result. I swear, this thing is a modern-day Pythia, spouting wisdom from a digital Oracle of Delphi.

Based on the anagram for Mr. Woods, I thought I'd run through the names of other sports stars who (allegedly) have had had problems keeping their genitals between themselves and their spouses. No joke - here's what I got:

Tiger Woods: WORD: IT'S EGO
Michael Jordan: IDOL CAN JAM HER
Kobe Bryant: BETRAY KNOB

And, for the potpourri category bonus points...

Former president William Jefferson Clinton: JILTS NICE WOMEN. IN FOR FALL.

Oh, and Bill, bubba? If the anagram oracle is right, you should never have done that intern.

Hillary Clinton? ONLY I CAN THRILL

She should get that on her business cards. Might help in sticky diplomatic situations...

Reasons Why I Get My Rx Drugs at Target

2009-12-07T20:41:00.003-05:00

Bethesda. CVS on Wisconsin Avenue. Sunday night.

Always thought that pharmacist looked a little shady...

Thanks to the Sasquatch for taking this photo for me. I was being a big weenie about stepping down a couple of uneven stairs to get the right angle, so he rescued me.

First Snow

2009-12-05T12:42:00.003-05:00

I was expecting a "light dusting of sidewalks and streets" - that per the TV weather guys yesterday. I woke up to rain and a sky so dim, I just pulled the blanket up over my head and caught a few more minutes of sack time.

But then, I saw a glimmer of white.

And the skies opened up with heavy, wet snow.

I can hear it falling in clumps to the ground below my balcony.

I pulled on my boots and hat and went out to snap a couple of photos. The balcony is slick as hell. (Is Hell slick? Discuss amongst yourselves.) The power's already been out twice. I'm not going anywhere. I'll just sit here with some tea and watch the snow come down from the comfort and safety of the sofa.

Friends in Oz and So. Cal, these are for you:

The tree directly off my balcony.

My friends, that's more than a "light dusting"...
and it's still coming down...

My arm's too short to box with God
or to get close enough to this tree to properly use the macro feature.
Eh, you guys know the drill. I take blurry photos.

And *that* is as far from home as I'm going today.
Well, the laundry room is farther away than the balcony,
but if the power keeps going out, that's off the list, too.

Ups, Downs, and the Joy of Action Figures

2009-11-30T23:00:00.006-05:00

Maybe having a smartphone of some sort isn't such a bad thing.

I had a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and was Internet-free for several hours. Of course - OF COURSE - I miss an e-mail from Imogen Heap that she'd sweetly put me on the guest list for her sold-out show tonight at the historic 6th & I Synagogue (a building with super sweet acoustics that was, as I understand it, largely saved from destruction by the late, generous Abe Pollin.) As I looked at the clock and realized that the concert was likely wrapping up when I discovered the e-mail in my in-box, I just sat here and muttered a few choice obscenities. It's not often that I'm on anyone's guest list, and I bet this was a great gig.

I'll ponder my apology to the lovely Ms. Heap over a glass of warm milk in a few minutes.

Now, the happy yang to my unhappy yin: along with the missed opportunity, my in-box included a set of photos from my sister, the social worker. She had procured a 12" WASP WWII pilot action figure a few months ago when I found them for sale online. And, a few weeks later, she came across a 12" Indiana Jones action figure at a garage sale. Now, my mom had a thing for Harrison Ford. (What warm-blooded woman didn't? At least before he started dating skeletons and visiting Kansas City strip clubs and getting earrings with guys from 60 Minutes, that is.)

My sister took the time to take some action shots of "Mom" and Harrison. Enjoy:

Ahhh, vintage action figure romance!

We can do it!

Know what this is, Harrison? It's a brain eater.
And you know what it's doin'? STARVING!

I think Mom would have approved. And laughed. At the very least, it made me laugh tonight. Now, where's that glass of milk and words to apologize for missing the concert???

When Black Friday comes...

2009-11-25T19:42:00.004-05:00

I'll be safely at home, not even pondering entering that terrifying frenzy and fray of commercial madness and vehicular hell. No thanks, no way, no how.

However, in honor of the day, a little Steely Dan:

Is it me, or does Donald Fagen increasingly look like some sort of keyboard vampire?

Happy Turkey Day, friends, wherever you are. And seriously, stay home on Friday. Let the nut patrol unleash hell without you. No HDTV or discount iPod is worth living through the Suburban Bataan Death March.

Peace, y'all.

And hand turkeys for everyone!!

Hey, Subway Sandwich People!

2009-11-24T20:12:00.010-05:00

Or, Five Dollar Fur-Long.

(Please see UPDATE at end of post.)

After running a few errands tonight, I figured I'd do the Jared thing and get a healthy sub at the new Subway shop at White Flint Plaza on Nicholson Lane in North Bethesda. Get a five-dollah footlong with lots of veggie-tastic goodness, and have lunch set for tomorrow, too.

Except when I walked into the very, very small shop, there was a woman with a poofy Pomeranian type dog (except bulkier, bigger) on one of the few tables in the shop, just a few feet from the meats, cheeses, fixin's, and such. Gross.

Sincere regrets to any of my friends who think it's perfectly fine to bring pooches into restaurants. I'm *really* pretty firm on this one. You bring a long-haired dog into a tiny deli and have it up on the table in spitting distance of the food? That's nasty. Dogs don't always cotton to strangers, and they don't always have perfect control of their excretory processes, either.

Let's be very clear - this was not a seeing eye dog. Not an assistance dog. This was a ball of hair getting "wuzzy wuzzy woo woo" kisses from the woman holding onto it. And one that made a nasty, aggressive, yappy bark as customers walked in. Uncool.

Look, I love critters. But I don't think I need to encounter anyone else's pet when I'm buying human food. Hell, I saw some Juicy-butted woman in slippers take her dog into Harris Teeter the other day. She got the big hairy eyeball from a manager and departed. (Hooray, management with cojones!) I may be an uptight frump, but the tiny indoor dining & food preparatin area of a Subway shop in suburban Maryland ain't an outdoor cafe in Paris. And I don't know about you, but I don't care for Pomeranian fur in my sammich.

I asked the male clerk why there was a dog in Subway. He shrugged. "I dunno. I don't care." I told him it wasn't sanitary to have a dog up on a dining table a few feet from where the sandwich components were laid out in the open air. Could he ask the patron to take the dog outside? He wouldn't look up at me. Instead, he pointed at the food and said, "The dog isn't right here. It doesn't matter."

Bubba, it does matter. It matters when a customer points out an unsanitary situation four feet from the cash register. (And it makes you wonder what the rest of their standards are.) The customer ahead of me nodded and smiled, but didn't say anything. (Of course, leave it to me to be the one to say something.) The clerk blew me off completely at that point and just asked the other customer what sub he wanted.

I know it may be stupid, but this Subway - a pretty new location, by the way - just lost me as a customer. I told them this as I left. And I also stopped at the table with the dog and said, "Hey, that's really unsanitary that you have your dog in here. Especially up on a table where other customers will be eating."

She had the good grace to take her dog outside at that point. But I should NOT have been the one to tell her. There were at least THREE staff members in this little Subway, and none of them had the balls to tell this woman - who wasn't even eating there (her husband and kid were - each one took his/her own table) - to take her fluffy baby outside.

Now, I know I will piss off a handful of folks who see their dogs as children and believe they should be allowed everywhere. I'm not one of those folks. We took our dog, the late, great Termite all over creation in the car, but we didn't take her inside places that generally require opposable thumbs, the use of a napkin, and the ability to indicate "no tomatoes, please."

I'm going to check with the county tomorrow about non-assistance pets in restaurants in MoCo. And I'm calling Subway's consumer hotline. Theoretically, it operates 24/7. Of course, when I called, I got a message telling me there is a "system error." That's a convenient way to avoid taking calls, no?

Yours,

The cranky biyotch who ended up with chili and a baked potato from Wendy's. (Yeah, I got attacked by a squirrel at that Wendy's, but I was in the parking lot and clearly on that squirrel's turf.)

UPDATE: A call to the Subway corporate number this morning yielded a fast response. My complaint was forwarded to the regional management and the store owner. Store owner verified my story with his store staff and then with me by phone. He was pissed that his staff not only didn't do anything, but also ignored me. He's instituting some changes, some education, and putting up a NO PETS sign on the door.

Well done.

Childhood Memories of a Weirdness Magnet

2009-11-22T16:49:00.006-05:00

Installment #1 in a series of posts to prove my talent for attracting strangeness is not a recent development. Exhibit A:

This is me, circa 1978-ish, returning a runaway lion cub to the neighbors across the street from my parents' house. The lioness at our local zoo (Niabi Zoo) had three cubs and she rejected them. Teske's, the local seed and feed (now a "pet and garden center") offered to keep the cubs until Jim "Wild Kingdom" Fowler could come to pick them up for resettlement in another zoo.

One of our neighbors worked at Teske's and she was assigned to bring one of the cubs home when the store was closed, so it could be fed and tended to properly. Except this was one fast little sucker, and he escaped. I remember looking out our front window and saying, "Hey, Mom, there's a lion in the yard." Mom, knowing me to be a total BS artist who liked to prank her with silly stuff, completely ignored me and continued to read a copy of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

Until I went outside and returned with a lion cub that I plopped down in her lap. He was very happy to have a cozy lap and a fireplace. Mom was thrilled until he decided to relax by stretching his limbs and extending his massive kitten claws into all parts of her body.

That photo was snapped by our neighbor when I brought the runaway back home. I enjoy the composition of this photo, btw, wherein I appear to be growing a very large tree from the top of my cranium.

Ah, memories!

Сегодня, я - ударница!

2009-11-16T00:09:00.006-05:00

Back in the heyday of the Soviet Union, an "udarnik"* (or "shock worker") was the ultimate proletarian factory dude who overfilled his quotas. He was, quite simply, the uber-worker. "Udarnitsa" is the cute feminine version of that work.

And right now, my friends, I'm definitely in udarnitsa territory. I worked all weekend, much to my spine's dismay, and now, I can't sleep. Slept like crap last night (a few minutes here and there) and now I'm overtired.

Have to be up at 6 to go to physical therapy. Then, it's Hell Week for me until 5 p.m. on Thursday, the deadline for submitting a small, but frustrating pile of hefty guv'ment grant proposals. Now, I don't mind working without a day off every once in a while, but with the back right now, it's not a good deal.

I regret that I am humorless, evil, and gimpy.

I'm looking forward to smiling again Friday.

*Believe it or not, "udarnik" was one of the very first Russian words I learned in college. First sentence of the Russian textbook we used at Macalester? "Как живут ударники? Ударники живут очень хорошо." ("How do shockworkers live? Shockworkers live very well.") I swear to god.

Some night are just this way

2009-11-13T21:56:00.003-05:00

I know intense back pain brings on depression. It messes with your head. I've been unbearably cranky and generally unpleasant to be around. (And I'm sorry if you've had to cross paths with me in recent days.)

And to cap it off, I had one of those really lousy, stinking, awful moments just now. Something crossed my mind and I thought, "I need to call Mom and tell her about that."

Crap.

Just... crap.

I'd say things would be better in the morning, but I have to work all weekend. I'm going to play music at a high volume in the office. Just a heads-up for anyone else planning on being in my corridor tomorrow.

Hoping you are spending this Friday evening with someone you love tonight, be it a partner or child or a parent or just a wonderful friend.

Veteran's Day

2009-11-10T23:26:00.005-05:00

Mom, Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas, 1943.

Thank you to all those who have served, and to those who serve today to protect and defend this nation. Thank you so very much.

A handful of lay-cation photos

2009-11-08T21:50:00.025-05:00

So, I took a brief vacation this past week. With the help of a dear friend, I reserved a cabin out in the wilds of West Virginia, just past the small town of Petersburg, right on the North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac River. The North Fork is a relatively modest stream, stocked with the locally-raised "golden trout." I never saw one of these critters the whole time I was there, but there is a fishery nearby I'd planned on visiting and snapping fishy photos.

I had a lot of plans for the week -- most of them involved brisk walking in the Spruce Knob National Recreation Area (using my spiffy Nordic walking poles!), shooting some arrows at a local archery range, and writing. Lots and lots of writing.

However, a few days before leaving for the cabin, while recovering from bronchitis, I coughed or sneezed and utterly screwed up something in my lower back, still unhealed from June's car accident. Overnight I went from Relatively Mobile Merujo to Weeping, Gasping, Crippled Merujo (also known by my Native American name, She Who Walks and Grunts Like Yoda.) My physical therapy doc told me I shouldn't be traveling ANYWHERE and handed me a Disability Certificate for work, with the box for "Totally Incapacitated" checked. Ugh. Not good.

But I was committed to going away for a few days, and I refused to let the spine get in the way of an escape from DC. You have to understand, I haven't taken any vacation since 1997 that wasn't connected to a family illness, death, or had at least one sibling in tow. (And I loved the trips with siblings -- I just needed Alone Time in a big way.)

The Sasquatch loaned me a tripod for this trip, so I could try to take some non-wobbly nature photos with my point-and-shoot camera. Alas, my back radiated so much agony, I couldn't have picked up the tripod from the car to set up the whole damn week. Most of the week was a "lay-cation." Not a stay-cation, since I did travel a whole three hours away from This Nation's Capital. But there sure was a lot of lying around like a big, mellow slug in front of a fireplace, watching DVDs of "Battlestar Galactica" and drinking wine.

Courtesy of being remarkably crippled with pain, the only photos I have to share with you are almost all taken from the relative comfort and safety of a parked car or from the porch or sofa in the cabin. The full story of the week? That will have to wait a bit. It may take a different form, in a different venue. More on that as developments happen.

Right now, I have to keep my online time to work hours and a few minutes here and there, stolen from the sofa. It's hard to blog from the laptop when you are curled up like a human pretzel. So, for now, I'll leave you with these images, fuzzy and shaky - much like the photographer...

One of the wonderful Arts & Crafts style lanterns at the entrance to the cabin property...

A quiet spot on the North Fork, just as you enter the cabin property...

The bridge over the North Fork out to the remote cabins where I stayed...

Home Sweet Temporary Home: Cabin 11...

The fire circle outside the cabin, overlooking the North Fork...

Trout? I don't see no stinkin' trout!
(But I did see a lot of fisherman in waders!)

Me, chewing on my lower lip, trying not to grimace
after my one and only nature walk all week.
Those are my Nordic walking poles in my hand.
They work great. As long as you can walk...

The view from the sofa...

The sun dropping from the sky over the North Fork...

The cabin is located in the Monongahela National Forest.
I love the font they use to spell out "National Forest."
I've asked a web guy at the Forest Service to tell me what the font is called.
It immediately takes me back to camping with my family as a kid...

Just some mailboxes across the road from the Ranger Station...

Ah, paintball. At least it's not bullet holes, eh?

Smoke Hole Caverns
Just a couple of miles down the road from the cabin.
It retains that fabulous 1960s/1970s feel with the signage. Love it!

UPDATE: Very sadly, only four days after I took these photos, a fire has destroyed the gift shop/restaurant at the caverns on 11/10/09. I'm glad I got to see at least the exterior in all its wonderful kitschy glory. Fire officials call the blaze suspicious. Not good.

The gift shop at the caverns has everything you expect from one of these spots.
I didn't go in, but I bet they had stick candy and jackalope piggy banks.
(This is the building that burned down.) :(

Even the caverns had golden trout, somewhere behind this decaying fence.
I'm pretty sure there's no coral occurring naturally in the Monongahela Forest...

Old barn across the road from the cabin property,
at the start of the road up to Dolly Sods...

Small cemetery in Petersburg. The town was founded in 1745,
and there are some lovely old headstones...

Sallie here died in 1859. Hers was the oldest headstone I could read.
The bottom text is the Psalm 73:26...

This interesting roofing style is found throughout the town of Petersburg.
Not sure of the significance, but it's lovely...

Outside the local grocery store. I saw these posters all over the place.
"After all - if you're gun's loaded, shouldn't you be, too?"

Still only twenty-five cents! Ride 'em, cowboy!!

I like how it looks as if he's racing his own shadow...

A view of a raging autumn mountainside in Dolly Sods...

That same hillside, only 30 seconds later, as the sun dropped suddenly from the sky.
Seriously, the sun doesn't set out here, it plummets!

Whooooooo!
I made it down the cabin steps without screaming in agony!
Hallelujah!

Country Roads

2009-11-07T14:33:00.006-05:00

Just got back to suburbia yesterday afternoon, after a few much-needed days off in rural West Virginia. I'll write about it later, but here's a little visual taste of the week:

Off to celebrate a friend's birthday. More words and better pictures later...

44

2009-10-31T22:52:00.007-04:00

So, I turn 44 in a few hours. Whooooo.

My mother was 44 years old when I was born. I'm so damn tired most days, I have no idea how the hell she dealt with a newborn *and* eight other children at the same time. Okay, so my oldest sister was 20 by then, so maybe you can discount her as a "child" at that point, but still...

Hard to believe I've made it this far with so little to show for it. No marriage or children. No house. A (recent) series of crashed cars and nasty spinal injuries. A job at a place I love, but with the same career trajectory as the little mountain climber in the Price Is Right "Cliffhangers" game.

Figure 1: Merujo

Figure 2: Merujo's career path

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I honestly thought I'd be a little higher on the food chain by now.

*Sigh*

Then again, don't we all? I mean, here I am TWENTY years ago:

Me, on the steps of the Lenin Library, near Red Square, Moscow

Now, that girl was going places! Of course, I killed so many brain cells on cheap vodka and champagne over the course of four years in Mutha Russia, I probably derailed the My Brilliant Career gravy train without ever noticing.

BTW, here is a short list of jobs I've turned down over the years:

1. Moving company manager for all of Mutha Russia (too many foreign business folks found dead in ditches back then to make it attractive)
2. Russian heavy metal lyric translator in London (seriously - that job was offered to me at the bar in the Hard Rock Cafe on my 21st birthday in 1986 by a producer from Island Records - should have taken it, but I think my mother would have killed me for not finishing my college degree)
3. Hooker. (That was in Central Asia. And I'm still not sure if the offer was to really be a hooker or just a third wife or something similiar...)

Ah well. All water under the bridge. (Or flooding it, crushing it, and dragging it down river.) I may not have a very upwardly mobile job these days, but I work with some seriously awesome people at a really amazing place. And we have our own theme music. By Elmer Bernstein, no less! (And yeah, that music still gives me chills like it did when I was a little kid.)

And so, here I am. Still alive. Still kickin'. Kinda. If you count limping and screaming "OW OW OW" as you go "kickin'"...

I'm hoping for a very good birthday tomorrow. No party. No cake. But I am going off the grid for a few days. No Facebook beyond sending a few birthday greetings of my own in the morning, no rampant Twittering. It's Alone Time for Merujo. Hopefully, by the end of the week, I'll have tapped out a good number of words, some of which may lead down a very intriguing path. One I'll tell you about later, if it pans out.

And, if my back (which has caused me a lot of pain and tears this week) decides to cooperate, maybe I'll do a little hiking and archery.

Yes, archery.

Me, with sharp, pointy sticks. Alert the media. And the police. And the paramedics.

Later, gators. See you in a week, more or less.

Mama needs to find some airfare to travel this flat earth...

2009-10-21T21:03:00.004-04:00

Okay, kids - I need suggestions. I just don't think turning tricks at 14th & K is going to cut it. See, there's this thing coming up in the UK in February of next year, and damn, I'd kill to go. I know my name's on the guest list, if only I could find the moolah to go.

So, short of specialty acts of prostitution or building my own meth lab, how does a girl with a job with quirky deadlines that precludes weekends working the register at Kohl's find a few hundred bucks?

Mama needs a seat on a plane to her old home, London town. I haven't left this country in years, which feels really weird, and I need to commune with my music and my city.

All reasonable suggestions entertained.

Attention, World Bank Employees!

2009-10-13T21:03:00.011-04:00

Hello, gentle scholars and economists,

I'm sure you do a lot of good during the workday, fighting corruption, improving infrastructure, and eradicating poverty, one nanny tax payment at a time. You guys have big brains. I know this to be true.

But can you tell me, dear men and women of high education and lofty goals, why you insist on walking through Pennsylvania Avenue against the light, often through the middle of traffic, at the end of the day? Are your beautiful minds simply so overwhelmed with Great Thoughts that the colors red and green lose all meaning? Have you somehow been brainwashed to believe that the big red palm on the traffic light pole means "come forward, my children, no one shall strike you?"

Or, more to the point, are you really that dumb?

Why on earth do you risk not only your lives, but those of the drivers who have to dodge you as you break the laws of DC (and common sense)?

Honestly, if you don't care that much for your own health and safety, at least be courteous enough to think about the rest of us. I *really* don't want to be in a decade of therapy because I accidentally mowed down an errant Ph.D. doing the headless chicken stroll in the fast-falling autumn darkness.

(Insert your own "why did the economist cross the road" joke here.)

Admittedly, it's not only World Bank peeps who pull this crap in downtown DC. And everyone who pulls crap like this is an arrogant menace. But since I have to go through the intersection of Pennsylvania & 18th just about every evening, it's y'all, with your World Bank ID badges fluttering in the breeze, that annoy me the most.

Tonight, I almost killed one of you guys.

This dude was yammering on a cell, mindlessly bolting partway into, partway back, partway into Pennsylvania Avenue, dressed in black, after sunset, in the middle of the damn block. And when I had to slam on my brakes and honk at him, as he continued to chat away with great self-importance and very little self-awareness, he did at least stop momentarily to give me a rude gesture very recognizable to this former Moscow dweller. And, in return, I called him something colorfully naughty in Russian*

Now, what I yelled wasn't very nice, but neither was his gesture - or his efforts to needlessly make himself a moving target in the center of the bloody street! (I do appreciate that he noticed my effort to make a culturally- and linguistically-appropriate response to his stupidity.)

Here are some handy hints (that you are ALL old enough to already know):

1. Walk with the light - this is not brain surgery. If you decide to stroll out into traffic when a Hummer is five feet away from you, the Hummer will win. Without even trying. Or wanting to win.
2. Once you've mastered that red/green shift, cross in the damn crosswalk. They went to the trouble to paint lines for you, the least you can do is use them.
2. If you are Crackberry-addicted, take a break from the pipe. Stop texting long enough to look up and make sure you're walking with the light, Carol Anne.
3. Treat drivers and bicyclists with the same respect you want for yourself - follow the rules small children are taught about crossing the street, eh?**

Now, I believe most World Bank folk to be people with common sense and an awareness of their surroundings. Heck, I count World Bank people among my dearest friends. But to the Penn & 18th dorks I say this: you are smart people. Don't be tools. Knock off the dumb and dangerous stuff.

And stop crossing on the red at H & 18th, too. It's uncool, okay?

*I shall refrain from sharing my crude Russian obscenity of choice here, but it was a goodie, trust me...

**Although I think World Bank employees are exempt from holding hands when crossing the street...

Breathe in, breathe out, scream loudly

2009-10-11T15:49:00.007-04:00

Oh, my god, the pain.

The excruciatingly horrible pain.

The pain that makes you wonder just what the hell *really* is deeply wrong with dungeon-dwelling masochists. The pain that makes you want to bolt and run for the door.

But, you don't because, you know, this is goooood for you.

Right?

Riiiiight.

Plus, you can't get up. No, really. You can't get up.

Welcome to Foot Massage Hell.

I've had reflexology before. Many times. My preferred foot-rubbing spot? Elaj Aveda Day Spa in King Farm, up in Rockville. There is a wonderful massage therapist there by the name of Christine, and she is amazing. I don't know what deal she made with otherworldly powers to get those healing hands, but the woman has a gift.

Unfortunately, I can't really afford her services very often. Let's just say this: it's not cheap, and the likelihood I'll be snagging myself a sweet sugar daddy anytime soon (or ever) is somewhere between zero and nil.

So, I save my pennies and go once every blue moon for 30 minutes of pedi-rapture.

Until today.

I cheated on my massage therapist.

The local coupon clipper circular came in the mail, and there was a discount screaming my name. Big bucks off reflexology in a spot just a hop, skip, and a jump from Chez Merde! And let's face it, Ms. Empty Pockets cannot pass up a bargain - especially a bargain that promised happy tootsies and a general sense of well-being.

I mean, after all, that's the feeling I always had leaving my regular-when-I-can-afford-it foot fiesta.

Oh my.

I guess the truth is, I've never really had serious, bad-ass, Chinese sports trainer-style reflexology before. My spa massages were, well, spa-like. Mellow. Gentle.

Screw that today.

My reflexologist met me at the door, and before he'd even ushered me to the big comfy recliner, he'd offered to come do any future appointments at my home. "You take a hot shower, you stretch out, we do full body massage and reflexology. Then, you sleep." I just smiled and made one of those noncommittal mumbles we all do when faced with friendly uncertainty and the desire to not be openly rude. ("Oh, Merujo, we just love your company! I'm making a headcheese coffee cake next Saturday. Never had one? Oh, well you'll adore it! You *must* come!" Mumble smile mumble.)

Today was just gonna be a shake down cruise. We'd see how the first session went. The price could not be beat, that much was certain.

The lights were turned off, and just the ambient light filtered through the windows. Chinese pan flute muzak played from a small boombox - I couldn't tell after a while if it was just one continuous track or actual separate songs. Soon, though, you'll understand why I couldn't give a crap.

He started by massaging my face. I told him I had pain in my shoulder and wrist from a car accident, but I think he didn't understand me. What he got out of what I said was, apparently, please dig your fingers deep into my left shoulder and right wrist until I shriek in agony.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

He managed to dip his thumb directly into the hollow of my right wrist, just at the point where the bone had snapped and, despite the high loft ceilings, I made one hell of a leap toward the rafters.

Holyshitfuckohfuckohshitohcrapohstopohgod
jesuschristinachickenbasketSTOP!

That hurt. A lot.

Small tears drifted down my face.

"It's good, yeah? How you feeling?"

"I think that's enough on my hands and shoulders, thank you," I told him, gulping for air. "Please, you must be gentle. Car accident injuries." Then I pointed out the rusty nail injury to my left foot, the result of a No Good Deed Goes Unpunished moment when I stepped onto a remarkably long, rusty nail while on a healthy morning walk a few weeks ago. "You have to work around that," I said. "Don't touch that area, please!"

HAHAHAHAHA.

What the hell was I thinking?

What proceeded to happen was thirty minutes of paralyzing pain, percussive hits to feet, legs, and knees (yes, god, knees!), and something that went far beyond deep tissue massage into the realm of instrument-free surgery. My legs had locked up and my glutes were clenched like I'd been trapped in some Rube Goldberg mix of bear trap and ThighMaster. Literally, I couldn't catch my breath enough to complain.

I had started out with my deep breathing work before his hands hit my body, but soon, those deep breaths would turn ragged, and eventually turn into something rhythmic that would make any Lamaze instructor proud. Seriously, I went from "deep cleansing breaths" to "hee hee hooo, hee hee hooooooo" and thoughts ran through my head that this was probably fairly close to what labor felt like, just a few inches to the north.

It's kinda, sorta funny now, but then the words "women go through labor every day all around the planet, I can hack this" went through my skull over and over and over again, all while that goddamn Zamfir-meets-Crouching-Tiger bullshit calming music played like a sick joke in the background. I was nearing some sort of out of body state when I suddenly realized he had stopped the assault on my limbs and had started clipping my toenails.

WTF?

"What are you doing?!?" I wheezed at him.

"Pedicure now?" He smiled from what felt like a thousand miles away.

"Jesus, no," I panted. "No pedicure. We're done, right?"

He stopped and said, "Okay, how you feeling?"

I didn't have words. I mean, literally, I didn't have words. And, for the love of Pete, all of you know that's about as rare as an albino panda.

I just wanted the room to stop spinning, my hand to stop throbbing, and the linguini that used to be my legs and feet to regain solidity.

As I regained my senses, the guy told me in broken English that he had been a trainer with a national sports team in China. And before that, he was a doctor.

A doctor.

Jesus.

And yet, here he was, sitting at the feet of some random fat broad in the DC suburbs, downstairs from a nail salon.

He did this to support his daughter and her dreams in America. That's dedication. And love. And, despite the pain he'd just unloaded on me, inspiring.

But, dear lord, I wish he and I could have understood each other a little better. My right wrist is still screaming at me 12 hours later, my left shoulder would leave town if it could, and my previously rusty-nail injured foot has won Most Likely to Keep Merujo Awake Tonight.

Will I go back for more? Oh, hell no! Right now, I need gentle. Nothing world-class. Just something soothing, please. When my penny pile rises to the level that I can visit my sweet-handed masseuse in Rockville, I'll be there.

Now, here's the deal: had I known I would be getting pretty much an Olympic-class sports massage, I would have been mentally prepared for it. When I traveled in Central Asia on business, I often stopped at the national sports stadiums in the capital cities. Many of the trainers had previously worked for various Soviet Olympic teams, and they were thrown to the wolves when the Soviet Union collapsed. For a ridiculously low fee (but one that was more than a month's salary there), you could get a fantastic sports massage designed for a world class athlete.

But this morning, all Ms. Wimptastica wanted was a gentle, toxin-cleansing foot rub. I was not mentally prepared to be twisted into a bloated pretzel in an overstuffed armchair.

If any of you are looking for a really fierce, skin-twisting massage (or you're just into pain), let me know, and I'll give you the specifics of this morning's location. But you won't find me there, gorked out on a bizarre high of some shaman-ish elemental pain.

I'll be drinking tea and listening to seagulls at the spa, thanks.

Can I get that "Biggie" size?

2009-10-10T20:40:00.008-04:00

It never fails. I know better than to linger in a Wendy's parking lot.

You may remember my previous encounters: chili-crazed squirrel attack, hot steamy Latin luvin', the rat perched on the ordering screen...

Yeah, you know I know better.

All I wanted was a Coke Zero. A big, icy cold cup of (probably) kidney-killing diet crack. And I wanted to read over the ads in the Sunday Washington Post. (I read the Post online, but I buy the big Sunday bundle for coupons and to read Date Lab. Oh, and Date Lab? That requires a whole blog post unto itself. As in, what should you think when a co-worker appears in Date Lab and expresses a dislike for people who look like you? As in, how do you interact with someone who has given a "no fat chicks" statement to a newspaper he has to know most of the Metro area is going to see? Like I said, that requires a lot more words than a mere parenthetical aside.)

So, there I was, diggin' the sweet, sweet breeze in the Wendy's lot, sippin' on my Zero, flipping through the Target circular, lovin' autumn, when a spoileriffic Honda zips in a couple of spaces down from me. The lot was completely empty, by the way, when I pulled in. The Fast-and-Furious, pimped out, street racer-ish Honda just had to Tokyo drift itself into the only row with anyone in it.

Of course.

As the car doors opened, I noticed the driver was Ed Hardy-garbed from head to toe - a young Latino guy sporting the Jon "early middle-age crisis" Gosselin look - and the chica who slid from passenger seat was in jeans painted on so tightly, I was astounded she could move (or had circulation in) her legs. A couple of minutes passed as I glossed through the opinion section of the paper (was the Nobel Prize selection committee smoking crack? did they bring enough to share?) and I realized the Honda duo hadn't managed to leave the lot. They were caught in up a passionate clinch that had apparently bypassed G, PG, and most of R on the way to letters way up in the alphabet.

Whatever.

The breeze had picked up. Maybe they'd just found a good way to raise internal body temperatures.

There was much giggling, and then it seemed they were leaving. And the Hardy Boy was letting the little lady get behind the wheel.

Putting down the Style Section after a few minutes, I realized the couple hadn't left. Both the driver and passenger doors were open, and the dude lolled back in the passenger seat, one leg stretched out to the ground.

But the chiquita? She was driving, all right. And apparently, she knew how to drive manual.

Really well.

She was, uh, working the stick.

Polishing the gear shift knob.

Upsizing his combo.

Getting him a triple beef patty.

With everything on it.

And I really, really, REALLY didn't need to see the beef in question.

But I did.

And it will be the stuff of nightmares for many nights to come.

Guys, seriously - hand jobs, blow jobs, and just about any other job of an intimate nature in a fast food parking lot at 4 in the afternoon? {{{shudder}}} JUST. SAY. NOOOOOOOOO!

All I can say is this - I think I'll be avoiding any beef products at Wendy's for a while.

Somebody, hand me the TUMS...

Farragut North. Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.

2009-09-17T20:03:00.008-04:00

Ah, Metro.

Ahhh, Farragut North.

I will admit, it's convenient to work and there is adequate seating for gimps like me. But the surface elevator is a constant swirl of urine and B.O. (no, seriously), and most of the commuters would rather have bamboo shivs run through their eye sockets that interact with the rest of the humans littering the platform.

I wait through lines of sardine-tinned six-car trains, hoping to win a seat in the eight-car lottery. I usually end up planting myself on a Shady Grove-bound train under a panel dripping some H1N1/West Nile-ish substance. Gee, no wonder no one else claimed this spot! The reluctance of many to sit in the last car on the train can grant some peace at the end of the day. If you're willing to spin the Big Wheel of Metro Safety, that is.

While I wait for a ride that isn't packed like a Tokyo commuter special, I sit and observe the patterns. Not the human ones. They have no order at the end of a long day. When there is Human Habitrail chaos around you, and the air is thick and sweaty enough to be a tangible miasma, there is a measure of calm in the geometry of the concrete. Cool and orderly.

And even a little photogenic.

Ahh.

Selling domain names - any advice?

2009-09-15T07:05:00.000-04:00

I'm looking to sell my two domains (askcrc.com and crstudios.com) from my old days as a consultant and a failed crafty-type businessperson.

Any readers with any advice or recommendations for venues or techniques for selling a domain?

Muchas gracias,

Merujo

Neon Mojo

2009-09-05T23:48:00.010-04:00

My neon mojo seems to be on vacation right now. I got a lot of blurry and crappy shots tonight. Maybe I'm just rusty. Or maybe I just should cut myself a little slack. I haven't shot any neon in months, I'm rusty, a little tired, and my eyes hurt from trying to get used to my new eyeglasses today. Also, I shot all of these from inside my Enterprise $9.99/day weekend cheapy rental car. Everywhere I went there were freaky people, and I really didn't want to engage with them.

Oh, excuses, excuses.

Well, it was short trip tonight, but I'm still taking baby steps coming back...

This was a jewelry store in a really crappy strip mall in Gaithersburg,
next to a place called "Starvin' Marvin Pizza." This sign reads "Importers."
Even without my shaky hand, you can barely read it.

Love the neon, but the entryway debris doesn't really encourage me
to buy my next bouquet from them...

Ah, what would a Maryland Saturday night be without a keg and some keno?

This dentist's sign totally cracks me up.
The tooth has lips, but no teeth of its own.
Ponder that one, kids.

I know this sign says "A and S Salon."
But every single time I drive past this place, I misread the ampersand.
It will always be the ASS SALON to me.

These are just the hanging lamps at a Jerry's Subs & Pizza.
I kinda dig how they came out, a little blurred.
Nice, warm colors and soft shapes.

Okay, enough for tonight. I promise, I will try harder next time. I saw a sign for a hookah bar and a cactus wearing a sombrero, advertising fajitas, so I *haveta* go back out and try again.

G'night, kids!

I Suck at Poetry: the Autumn is A-Comin' Edition

2009-08-30T23:55:00.008-04:00

Yes, I know I suck at poetry. But ever since I was a kid, I've had these moments where words well up in my brain, but make no sense in narrative prose. And so, even though I do suck at it, I write verse. Free verse. If you can tolerate reading this, you'll see it's... uh... very free verse. No form, no rhyme, a little reason.

(And in the darkness, some aging dude with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead flicks open his Zippo, holds it to the sky and cries, "Play free verse!")

In my head, it started out as a cheerful burst of autumn tribute. Then, it kinda went all Stephen King-y. Go figure. Like I said, I suck at poetry.

summer steam
and swelter
dried and crushed
under heel

that first crisp night
of autumn

it’s here.

that ray bradbury time
when youth turns sour
and age grows painful

the midways close
the fairs leave town
their carnival wake scented, cloying
with fried sugar dough
and animal musk

they leave deep furrows
in the brow of the soil and
crime scene trails of
sno-cone debris

paper cups stained blue
with summer’s blood
that turn and drag in the wind

the wind

the wind that’s
a little cooler
than the day
before

as summer gasps
and school returns
and childhood dies a little bit
each time the leaves run riot
in orange
gold and red

the air smells of leaf fires
baked goods and pumpkins
and elmer’s glue
stuck between
short, fat fingers and
construction paper

small-town cheerleaders shine in
a bonnie bell bonfire glow
while the football players leer
from a homecoming float

corn-fed pulchritude

firm and young and ripe
for the picking
for the harvest

before the snap
and the chill

and winter
comes

One of those dry heave moments

2009-08-23T02:14:00.006-04:00

Okay, so the insomnia monster is eating my brain again tonight. It's nowhere near as bad as the summer of 2005 (also known as the "Summer of the Axe" or the "Summer of Someday I'll Look Back on All This and Laugh. Maybe.") That said, the not sleeping at night thing blows.

And here I am, surfing the 'Net. I should be working on the final pieces of a big personal project, but I don't want to get my brain even more revved up than it already is at 2:15 in the blessed a.m. So, I opt for something brainless - the Bubble Spinner game over at eBaum's World. Addictive, mindless, perfect.

Except, tonight (well, this morning, actually) there's an ad on the side of the page.

An ad featuring a body part.

An ad that morphs into another image of said body part.

And I'm not wearing my glasses, and in that first split second, I mistake the body part shown for... well... another body part.

You'll have to cut me some slack - remember my depth perception is shot, and that plus no eyeglasses = horror.

I was so grossed out by what I thought I saw, it actually made me dry heave. I hope that the advertisers - Old Spice - didn't intend for anyone to make the same error.

Because, frankly, a hoo-hah this unkempt would be astounding gross. An unkempt hoo-hah that "rains popcorn"? Even more disgusting:

Enlarge image at your own peril...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. It's an armpit, Merujo, you blind moron! Now that I have my eyeglasses on, I'm painfully well aware that it's an armpit. And yes, had it been the body part I thought it was, it would be terribly misshapen. (And braidable.) And yes, isn't it wonderful that Old Spice is making a product that will save a hairy pit from lots of creepy residue?

Still gross. Still looks like it's raining popcorn.

And honestly, none of your body parts should be doing that.

Happy nightmares, everyone! And if you think of this next time you're at a movie theatre concession stand, you can thank me for saving you a chunk of money and a belly full of carbs.

Creeping back into the sunlight

2009-08-15T23:07:00.005-04:00

Hello, friends.

It's been a while, no?

Things just weren't all that great for yours truly. June and July swirled together into one miserable, feverish blur - one I'd rather forget.

After a considerable sabbatical, my sense of humor is slowly returning. I'm still a little hesitant to write much here. To be honest, my plate away from the blog is pretty full right now. More on that later. But, tonight, I wanted to make some baby steps back into the groove.

So, consider this Baby Step #1.

For the first time in months, I took some photos today. I was out with the Sasquatch and the Atomic Editor, and while they did a little bit of geekly male bonding in a comics shop, I sat outside and tried to remember how to use my little camera.

These aren't very good photos. I'm not a very good photographer.

That said, I'd like to think there's perhaps something a little metaphorical here, or at the very least symbolic, of my slow return at the height of summer.

Or that could just be a load of pretentious BS.

Eh, BS or not, the plants were pretty:

It's a start, right?

I don't know if anyone is still stopping by anymore, but just in case, thanks. Good to be back.

Just checking in

2009-06-25T23:31:00.002-04:00

Hi folks.

I can't type much right now, so this will be very short. I was in a car accident a week ago Tuesday. Don't really want to talk about it. Makes me very upset, for a variety of reasons. Not sure that I'll write any more than this about the event.

My right wrist is broken, but I had five grant proposal deadlines (all were due today) and I haven't really been able to rest the hand at all. Can't lie. I'm very depressed right now. I'll be back here when I'm feeling less crappy and have a little more hope in my heart.

Thanks to all my lovely friends who have written or called. I am grateful. Please consider this a universal hug to you all. Please know that I'll contact you when I'm feeling a little better.

Merujo

Once more, with (incredibly painful) feeling!

2009-06-11T22:41:00.006-04:00

My bad eye decided to act up over the weekend. I've had to use drops that muck up my vision, and I've been sitting in my office this week with shades and headphones, looking like Stevie Wonder's less-talented, white cousin.

Problem with the eye is that my depth perception is even more nonexistent right now, and yesterday morning, navigating that dangerous three-inch drop from the sidewalk to the street by my car, I took a major header, full speed, into the cement. Landed on my knees, full force. Caught myself with my hands before my head could hit the pavement. I would like to blame this incident on the ferocious nature of the "Attack Pavement" in my 'hood, but, alas, it can only be blamed on me, my mucked up eye, and my general clumsiness.

I'm really glad none of the neighbors saw me face down in the road. That's just not the image you want burned into everyone's mind.

To paraphrase the narrator from "A Christmas Story", I lay there like a slug. A slug in smart work attire, clutching a bottle of raspberry seltzer water. (That bottle would be put to good use as a temporary ice pack.) A slug wishing that she hadn't just fallen off a THREE-INCH curb.

Seriously, shoot me now.

My entire body started to throb. My damn tailbone hurt! How the heck does your tailbone hurt when you've faceplanted yourself? Referred pain is, especially in this case, a serious pain in the butt!

Now, at this point, a sane person would have just crawled back to the apartment rather than go in to the office.

But when's the last time someone described me as sane?

Right.

When I got downtown, it took me five minutes to get out of my car at the parking garage. I think the valets wanted to kill me as I held up their rush hour parking work, but I just couldn't move. (Sorry, guys!) After gimping to the office, one of my colleagues noticed I was incredibly pale. When I rather ungracefully pulled up a trouser leg and showed her my ginormous, shiny knee, she almost heaved in the hallway. I hope she'd had breakfast already!

I had to get myself psyched to make the hobble down to our Med Unit in the basement of the building. Our office was in the midst of the annual Explorers Symposium, so there really wasn't anyone I could bug to go downstairs on my behalf. I was very appreciative that the Med Unit nurse had a bunch of crushable single-use ice packs for me to apply throughout the day.

I was bummed to miss the Symposium - there were a lot of cool presentations. At least I got a good amount of work done in my cone of silence, with the door closed and ice packs shifting all over the place. But, by about 4 p.m., my entire left leg had turned into an unhappy, throbbing, mottled tree trunk, and I had to take off my watch to accommodate my left hand, which was rapidly turning into a Macy's parade balloon. Yes, it was very pretty.

By the time I got home, I was a ball of misery. Took me twenty minutes to get brave enough to step out of the car onto my left foot. My knee was going in and out, and I had this horror of falling down again in the exact same spot.

Long story short (I know, too late for that) after a trip to the doc and the ER this morning: I sprained both ankles, my left knee, my left wrist and my left shoulder, and tore a ligament in the left knee.

I spent the day today at home. Not working from home. Just at home. Sleeping, icing various body parts, grumbling. I'm up now, since I need more water and the computer chair is currently conveniently located between the sofa and the kitchen.

Warning to coworkers: my sense of humor may be greatly impaired tomorrow. I will try to keep my tooth-grinding crankiness to myself.

Do they make full-body ice packs? Not sure one large enough for my person would even fit in my freezer!

Oy vey.

Huzzah for the Sasquatch!

2009-06-07T20:37:00.012-04:00

This has been quite the eventful couple of weeks for my dear friend, the Sasquatch. After three years of balancing a full-time job and a graduate education, the shy arboreal creature received his MFA in Graphic Design from the Savannah College of Art & Design. I'm very proud of him. I think it's a remarkable achievement to graduate with academic honors while pulling down a 40+ hour week in a hectic, demanding workplace.

While I could not be down in Georgia to see him be honored in person, I was able to watch the events unfold on the SCAD website. That was very cool. I was even able to snap a screen capture of the moment of the diploma handshake. However, since the Sasquatch is a modest sort, I will not share the image here. Instead, enjoy this artist's rendering of his graduation:

With a sense of purpose and determination, the Sasquatch lumbers across the stage at the civic center in Savannah, gnarled (but talented) hand outstretched to accept his well-deserved SCAD MFA diploma...

Fine work, Sasquatch, my friend. Fine work, indeed. You rawk!

This weekend brought his birthday, and, as part of the celebration, we headed to Wolftrap last night to catch DeVotchKa and David Byrne. Truth be told, we were really there to hear DeVotchKa play. David Byrne, despite being the headliner, was an afterthought.

We discovered DeVotchKa one night on the car radio, and we were so captivated, we just sat in my jalopy for half an hour, listening and listening. The music is a blend of gypsy and Mexican, Eastern European and Latin, sung in whatever language is most appropriate. The musicians are all multiple threats, each playing at least two instruments, from mandolins and guitars to trumpets and sousaphone to standing bass and theremin. Yep, theremin. I highly recomment their CD "How It Ends" as a way to begin.

Here's a track from that recording, called "The Enemy Guns", performed live on KCRW's "Morning Becomes Eclectic" show:

Dig it? I bet you did.

We brought a blanket and a tarp for the saturated hillside of the Wolftrap lawn, and cold fried chicken and Amish salads for our bellies. The Sasquatch raced ahead of me to stake out a spot on the grass. He did exceptionally well. On a night where the lawn would become clogged with happy punters, we had a fabulous view of the stage. We also had, by chance, plopped down one blanket away from the ever-kind and cool Frank Warren of PostSecret fame. It was a real pleasure to see Frank, as always. He's a real sweetheart, utterly mellow, and we were pleased to give him scoop on DeVotchKa, whose music he didn't know.

A rare, non-blurry photograph of the Sasquatch.
He can be slowed down and recorded only when tempted
with chilled, dark-meat KFC and the promise of remarkable music.

We ate, we rocked out to the band we were excited to see (DeVotchKa got a standing O from the audience - how often do you see that for an opening act?!?), and we really enjoyed David Byrne, too. The Sasquatch would do more justice to describing the wonderfully simple, but effective design of the show (performers all in white, with revolving panels of color behind), so I'll just say it was quite good. Heck, it even had choreography!

All in all, it was a good night. There were points when I just lay down on the grass (well, on my wonderfully cheesy Moline Maroons blanket) and looked up at the heavens, watching the stars slowly come into view over the Filene Center. For a little while, the world was as small as that hillside. No back pain, no worries. Just good music and a good friend.

I wish, as grown-ups, we could have more evenings like that. Music. Friends. Cold fried chicken. It's a little piece of bliss.

Thank you, Sasquatch, for letting me be part of your birthday. And congratulations to you for your admirable academic achievement. The world is your oyster, my friend. Time for you to belly up to the graphic design raw bar!

(It made sense in my head.)

Church of the Big Sky

Conversations You Can't Believe You're Actually Having: the Staples Edition

Umm... is this thing on?

We were on a break!

The Closet Monster, Part Three: Suffocation and Staircases

The Closet Monster, Part Two: Rules of Engagement

The Closet Monster, Part One: Pillow Talk

Anyone up for a new story?

One of these things is not like the other...

I swear, world - we are not this stupid

We were on a break!

One More Night in a Glamorous Life: the Sleep & Skank Edition

Oh, I think I should feel a little bit bad about this

Archery of My Middle Ages

No More Radio Days

I defy you to not enjoy this

Can I Get a Witness?

Yeah, I Live in "Classy Town USA"

Forty-Five

Hint to DC City Workers

Coffee Crank

The cicadas know...

Why, sure you can pay me to buy that swanky printer paper

Tell me all the things you would change

Well, this doesn't look good

I Suck at Poetry: the Lydia Deetz Edition

Facebook recommends...

Radio Hack

There's nothing quite like...

Just sayin'...

Screw you, PEPCO

I would have sucked at living in the 1800s

Eh, screw it!

Is Giles available in sugar-free?

A Swift Kick to the Ego

Are we hurtling rapidly toward the sun?

Level 42

If you read my Air & Space article...

From the Church of the Big Sky Way-Back Machine: On Love of Music

Did the earth move for you, too, baby?

Props from the Alma Mater

My Air & Space article is out!!

UGH

Blogger comments are screwed today

Roku, how I love thee!

The sizzle you hear...

It's that time of year again...

Laying off "The Office"

No lions and tigers and bears, but...

Back in the Saddle Again

In my hands, a faded history

Ten.

Motivated

A Grateful Nation

Words from a notebook

Just a thought for the day

{{insert big grin here}}

Just a Note to the Makers of Lost

Working on it...

Happy Mother's Day

Hooray! My WASP article has a publish date!

Back in black! (and white)

Today was Mom's day

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln...

Mom makes the local paper

A Celebration Long Overdue

Busy as a bee (cough, cough, hack, cough)

Pat Robertson and the Bullet Train to Hell

And so it ends.

Merry Christmas!

A Weather Report from the Bottom of the Stairs

Baby, it's cold outside!

Attention Facebook!

Sports Stars Who Can't Keep It in Their Pants: the Anagram Edition

Reasons Why I Get My Rx Drugs at Target

First Snow

Ups, Downs, and the Joy of Action Figures

When Black Friday comes...

Hey, Subway Sandwich People!

Childhood Memories of a Weirdness Magnet